THE   TRIUMPH    OF    THE    EGG 


OTHER  BOOKS  BY  SHERWOOD  ANDERSON 

Poor  White 
Winesburg,  Ohio 
Windy  McPherson's  Son 
Marching  Men 
Mid- American  Chants 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  THE  EGG 


A  BOOK  OF  IMPRESSIONS 
FROM  AMERICAN  LIFE 
IN  TALES  AND  POEMS 


BY 

SHERWOOD    ANDERSON 

IN    CLAY    BY 

TENNESSEE  MITCHELL 


In  the  fields 

Seeds  on  the  air  floating. 
In  the  towns 
Black  smoke  for  a  shroud. 
In  my  breast 
Understanding  awake. 
— Mid-American  Chant*. 


PHOTOGRAPHS  BY  EUGENB  HUTCHINSON 


NEW  YORK      B.  W.  HUEBSCH,  INC.     MCMXXI 


COPYRIGHT,   1921,   BY 
B.  W.  HUEBSCH,  INC. 


Published  October,  1921 

Second  printing,  December,  1921 

Third  printing,  February,  1922 


PRINTED    IV    U.    S.  A. 


GIFJ 


PS  350) 
N^ 

m 


TO 
ROBERT     AND     JOHN 

ANDERSON 


333 


IMPRESSIONS  IN  CLAY 

BY 
TENNESSEE  MITCHELL 


Labor 


"They  are  squarer  with  kids, 

I  don't  know   why." 

For    I    WANT    TO    KNOW    WHY 


She  worked  her  way  through  college 


Well-to-do 


The  Old  Scholar 


For    THE    EGG 


Melville  Stoner 
For  OUT  OF  NOWHERE  INTO  NOTHING 


EPISODES  in  this  book  have  been 
printed  in  the  Dial,  Smart  Set, 
Little  Review  and  Bookman. 

To  these  magazines  the  author 
makes  grateful  acknowledgment* 


CONTENTS 

THE     DUMB     MAN,      I 

I     W  AN  T     TO     KNOW     WHY,     5        v 

SEEDS,      21    ^  :<*<&t  dfcufc 

V*x«l  1  OA 

THE     OTHER     WOMAN,     33 

THE      EGG,      46  £—^ 

UNLIGHTED     LAMP  S*,     64. 

SENILITY,     93 

THE  MAN  IN  THE  BROWN  COAT,  97 

BROTHERS,   IO2 

THE  DOOR  OF  THE  TRAP,   Il6 

THE  NEW  ENGLANDER,   134 

WAR,   l6l 

MOTHERHOOD,      l68 

OUT      OF      NOWHERE      INTO      NOTHING,       171 

THE     MAN     WITH     THE      TRUMPET,      268 


THE  DUMB   MAN 

is  a  story. — I  cannot  tell  it. — I  have  no 
words. 

The  story  is  almost  forgotten  but  sometimes  I  re 
member. 

The  story  concerns  three  men  in  a  house  in  a  street. 
If  I  could  say  the  words  I  would  sing  the  story. 
I  would  whisper  it  into  the  ears  of  women,  of  mothers. 
I  would  run  through  the  streets  saying  it  over  and  over. 
My  tongue  would  be  torn  loose — it  would  rattle 
against  my  teeth. 

The  three  men  are  in  a  room  in  the  house. 
One  is  young  and  dandified. 
He  continually  laughs. 

There  is  a  second  man  who  has  a  long  white  beard. 
He  is  consumed  with  doubt  but  occasionally  his  doubt 
leaves  him  and  he  sleeps. 

A  third  man  there  is  who  has  wicked  eyes  and  who 
moves  nervously  about  the  room  rubbing  his 
hands  together. 

The  three  men  are  waiting — waiting. 


2  THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

Upstairs  in  the  house  there  is  a  woman  standing  with 
her  back  to  a  wall,  in  half  darkness  by  a  window. 

That  is  the  foundation  of  my  story  and  everything 
I  will  ever  know  is  distilled  in  it. 

I  remember  that  a  fourth  man  came  to  the  house,  a 

white  silent  man. 

Everything  was  as  silent  as  the  sea  at  night. 
His  feet  on  the  stone  floor  of  the  room  where  the  three 

men  were  made  no  sound. 

The  man  with  the  wicked  eyes  became  like  a  boiling 
liquid — he  ran  back  and  forth  like  a  caged  animal. 

The  old  grey  man  was  infected  by  his  nervousness — 
he  kept  pulling  at  his  beard. 

The  fourth  man,  the  white  one,  went  upstairs  to  the 
woman. 

There  she  was — waiting. 

How  silent  the  house  was — how  loudly  all  the  clocks 

in  the  neighborhood  ticked. 
The  woman  upstairs  craved  love.     That  must  have 

been  the  story.     She  hungered  for  love  with  her 

whole  being.     She  wanted  to  create  in  love. 
When  the  white  silent  man  came  into  her  presence  she 

sprang  forward. 


THEDUMBMAN  3 

Her  lips  were  parted. 

There  was  a  smile  on  her  lips. 

The  white  one  said  nothing. 

In  his  eyes  there  was  no  rebuke,  no  question. 

His  eyes  were  as  impersonal  as  stars. 

Down  stairs  the  wicked  one  whined  and  ran  back  and 

forth  like  a  little  lost  hungry  dog. 
The  grey  one  tried  to  follow  him  about  but  presently 

grew  tired  and  lay  down  on  the  floor  to  sleep. 
He  never  awoke  again. 

The  dandified  fellow  lay  on  the  floor  too. 

He  laughed  and  played  with  his  tiny  black  mustache. 

I  have  no  words  to  tell  what  happened  in  my  story. 
I  cannot  tell  the  story. 

The  white  silent  one  may  have  been  Death. 
The  waiting  eager  woman  may  have  been  Life. 

Both  the  old  grey  bearded  man  and  the  wicked  one 

puzzle  me. 

I  think  and  think  but  cannot  understand  them. 
Most  of  the  time  however  I  do  not  think  of  them  at 

all.* 
I  keep  thinking  about  the  dandified  man  who  laughed 

all  through  my  story. 


4  THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

If  I  could  understand  him  I  could  understand  every 
thing. 

I  could  run  through  the  world  telling  a  wonderful 
story. 

I  would  no  longer  be  dumb. 

Why  was  I  not  given  words? 
Why  am  I  dumb? 

I  have  a  wonderful  story  to  tell  but  know  no  way  to 
tell  it. 


I  WANT  TO  KNOW  WHY 

GOT  up  at  four  in  the  morning,  that  first  day 
in  the  east.  On  the  evening  before  we  had 
climbed  off  a  freight  train  at  the  edge  of  town,  and 
with  the  true  instinct  of  Kentucky  boys  had  found  our 
way  across  town  and  to  the  race  track  and  the  stables 
at  once.  Then  we  knew  we  were  all  right.  Hanley 
Turner  right  away  found  a  nigger  we  knew.  It  was 
Bildad  Johnson  who  in  the  winter  works  at  Ed 
Becker's  livery  barn  in  our  home  town,  Beckersville. 
Bildad  is  a  good  cook  as  almost  all  our  niggers  are 
and  of  course  he,  like  everyone  in  our  part  of  Kentucky 
who  is  anyone  at  all,  likes  the  horses.  In  the  spring 
Bildad  begins  to  scratch  around.  A  nigger  from  our 
country  can  flatter  and  wheedle  anyone  into  letting  him 
do  most  anything  he  wants.  Bildad  wheedles  the 
stable  men  and  the  trainers  from  the  horse  farms  in 
our  country  around  Lexington.  The  trainers  come 
into  town  in  the  evening  to  stand  around  and  talk  and 
maybe  get  into  a  poker  game.  Bildad  gets  in  with 
them.  He  is  always  doing  little  favors  and  telling 
about  things  to  eat,  chicken  browned  in  a  pan,  and  how 
is  the  best  way  to  cook  sweet  potatoes  and  corn  bread. 
It  makes  your  mouth  water  to  hear  him. 

5 


6  THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

When  the  racing  season  comes  on  and  the  horses 
go  to  the  races  and  there  is  all  the  talk  on  the  streets 
m  the  evenings  about  the  new  colts,  and  everyone  says 
when  they  are  going  over  to  Lexington  or  to  the  spring 
meeting  at  Churchhill  Downs  or  to  Latonia,  and  the 
horsemen  that  have  been  down  to  New  Orleans  or 
maybe  at  the  winter  meeting  at  Havana  in  Cuba  come 
home  to  spend  a  week  before  they  start  out  again,  at 
such  a  time  when  everything  talked  about  in  Beckers- 
ville  is  just  horses  and  nothing  else  and  the  outfits  start 
out  and  horse  racing  is  in  every  breath  of  air  you 
breathe,  Bildad  shows  up  with  a  job  as  cook  for  some 
outfit.  Often  when  I  think  about  it,  his  always  going 
all  season  to  the  races  and  working  in  the  livery  barn 
in  the  winter  where  horses  are  and  where  men  like  to 
come  and  talk  about  horses,  I  wish  I  was  a  nigger. 
It's  a  foolish  thing  to  say,  but  that's  the  way  I 
am  about  being  around  horses,  just  crazy.  I  can't 
help  it. 

Well,  I  must  tell  you  about  what  we  did  and  let  you 
in  on  what  I'm  talking  about.  Four  of  us  boys  from 
Beckersville,  all  whites  and  sons  of  men  who  live  in 
Beckersville  regular,  made  up  our  minds  we  were  going 
to  the  races,  not  just  to  Lexington  or  Louisville,  I  don't 
mean,  but  to  the  big  eastern  track  we  were  always  hear 
ing  our  Beckersville  men  talk  about,  to  Saratoga,  We 
were  all  pretty  young  then.  I  was  just  turned  fifteen 
and  I  was  the  oldest  of  the  four.  It  was  my  scheme. 


I      WANT      TO      KNOW      WHY  7 

I  admit  that  and  I  talked  the  others  into  trying  it. 
There  was  Hanley  Turner  and  Henry  Rieback  and 
Tom  Tumberton  and  myself.  I  had  thirty-seven  dol 
lars  I  had  earned  during  the  winter  working  nights 
and  Saturdays  in  Enoch  Myer's  grocery.  Henry  Rie 
back  had  eleven  dollars  and  the  others,  Hanley  and 
Tom  had  only  a  dollar  or  two  each.  We  fixed  it  all 
up  and  laid  low  until  the  Kentucky  spring  meetings 
were  over  and  some  of  our  men,  the  sportiest  ones,  the 
ones  we  envied  the  most,  had  cut  out — then  we  cut 
out  too. 

I  won't  tell  you  the  trouble  we  had  beating  our  way 
on  freights  and  all.  We  went  through  Cleveland  and 
Buffalo  and  other  cities  and  saw  Niagara  Falls.  We 
bought  things  there,  souvenirs  and  spoons  and  cards 
and  shells  with  pictures  of  the  falls  on  them  for  our 
sisters  and  mothers,  but  thought  we  had  better  not 
send  any  of  the  things  home.  We  didn't  want  to  put 
the  folks  on  our  trail  and  maybe  be  nabbed. 

We  got  into  Saratoga  as  I  said  at  night  and  went 
to  the  track.  Bildad  fed  us  up.  He  showed  us  a  place 
to  sleep  in  hay  over  a  shed  and  promised  to  keep 
still.  Niggers  are  all  right  about  things  like  that. 
They  won't  squeal  on  you.  Often  a  white  man  you 
might  meet,  when  you  had  run  away  from  home  like 
that,  might  appear  to  be  all  right  and  give  you  a  quarter 
or  a  half  dollar  or  something,  and  then  go  right  and 
give  you  away.  White  men  will  do  that,  but  not  a 


8  THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

nigger.  You  can  trust  them.  They  are  squarer  with 
kids.  I  don't  know  why. 

At  the  Saratoga  meeting  that  year  there  were  a  lot 
of  men  from  home.  Dave  Williams  and  Arthur  Mul- 
ford  and  Jerry  Myers  and  others.  Then  there  was  a 
lot  from  Louisville  and  Lexington  Henry  Rieback 
knew  but  I  didn't.  They  were  professional  gamblers 
and  Henry  Rieback's  father  is  one  too.  He  is  what 
is  called  a  sheet  writer  and  goes  away  most  of  the 
year  to  tracks.  In  the  winter  when  he  is  home  in  Beck- 
ersville  he  don't  stay  there  much  but  goes  away  to 
cities  and  deals  faro.  He  is  a  nice  man  and  generous, 
is  always  sending  Henry  presents,  a  bicycle  and  a  gold 
watch  and  a  boy  scout  suit  of  clothes  and  things  like 
that. 

My  own  father  is  a  lawyer.  He's  all  right,  but 
don't  make  much  money  and  can't  buy  me  things  and 
anyway  I'm  getting  so  old  now  I  don't  expect  it.  He 
never  said  nothing  to  me  against  Henry,  but  Hanley 
Turner  and  Tom  Tumberton's  fathers  did.  They  said 
to  their  boys  that  money  so  come  by  is  no  good  and 
they  didn't  want  their  boys  brought  up  to  hear 
gamblers'  talk  and  be  thinking  about  such  things  and 
maybe  embrace  them. 

That's  all  right  and  I  guess  the  men  know  what 
they  are  talking  about,  but  I  don't  see  what  it's  got  to 
do  with  Henry  or  with  horses  either.  That's  what  I'm 
writing  this  story  about.  I'm  puzzled.  I'm  getting 


I      WANT      TO      KNOW      WHY  9 

to  be  a  man  and  want  to  think  straight  and  be  O.  K., 
and  there's  something  I  saw  at  the  race  meeting  at 
the  eastern  track  I  can't  figure  out. 

I  can't  help  it,  I'm  crazy  about  thoroughbred  horses. 
I've  always  been  that  way.  When  I  was  ten  years 
old  and  saw  I  was  growing  to  be  big  and  couldn't  be 
a  rider  I  was  so  sorry  I  nearly  died.  Harry  Hellin- 
finger  in  Beckersville,  whose  father  is  Postmaster,  is 
grown  up  and  too  lazy  to  work,  but  likes  to  stand 
around  in  the  street  and  get  up  jokes  on  boys  like  send 
ing  them  to  a  hardware  store  for  a  gimlet  to  bore 
square  holes  and  other  jokes  like  that.  He  played  one 
on  me.  He  told  me  that  if  I  would  eat  a  half  a  cigar 
I  would  be  stunted  and  not  grow  any  more  and  maybe 
could  be  a  rider.  I  did  it.  When  father  wasn't  look 
ing  I  took  a  cigar  out  of  his  pocket  and  gagged  it 
down  some  way.  It  made  me  awful  sick  and  the  doctor 
had  to  be  sent  for,  and  then  it  did  no  good.  I  kept 
right  on  growing.  It  was  a  joke.  When  I  told  what 
I  had  done  and  why  most  fathers  would  have  whipped 
me  but  mine  didn't. ; 

Well,  I  didn't  get  stunted  and  didn't  die.  It  serves 
Harry  Hellinfinger  right.  Then  I  made  up  my  mind 
I  would  like  to  be  a  stable  boy,  but  had  to  give  that 
up  too.  Mostly  niggers  do  that  work  and  I  knew 
father  wouldn't  let  me  go  into  it.  No  use  to  ask  him. 

If  you've  never  been  crazy  about  thoroughbreds  it's 
because  you've  never  been  around  where  they  are  much 


10        THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

and  don't  know  any  better.  They're  beautiful.  There 
isn't  anything  so  lovely  and  clean  and  full  of  spunk 
and  honest  and  everything  as  some  race  horses.  On 
the  big  horse  farms  that  are  all  around  our  town  Beck- 
ersville  there  are  tracks  and  the  horses  run  in  the 
early  morning.  More  than  a  thousand  times  I've  got 
out  of  bed  before  daylight  and  walked  two  or  three 
miles  to  the  tracks.  Mother  wouldn't  of  let  me  go  but 
father  always  says,  "Let  him  alone,"  So  I  got  some 
bread  out  of  the  bread  box  and  some  butter  and  jam, 
gobbled  it  and  lit  out. 

At  the  tracks  you  sit  on  the  fence  with  men,  whites 
and  niggers,  and  they  chew  tobacco  and  talk,  and  then 
the  colts  are  brought  out.  It's  early  and  the  grass  is 
covered  with  shiny  dew  and  in  another  field  a  man 
is  plowing  and  they  are  frying  things  in  a  shed  where 
the  track  niggers  sleep,  and  you  know  how  a  nigger 
can  giggle  and  laugh  and  say  things  that  make  you 
laugh.  A  white  man  can't  do  it  and  some  niggers 
can't  but  a  track  nigger  can  every  time. 

And  so  the  colts  are  brought  out  and  some  are  just 
galloped  by  stable  boys,  but  almost  every  morning  on 
a  big  track  owned  by  a  rich  man  who  lives  maybe  in 
New  York,  there  are  always,  nearly  every  morning,  a 
few  colts  and  some  of  the  old  race  horses  and  geldings 
and  mares  that  are  cut  loose. 

It  brings  a  lump  up  into  my  throat  when  a  horse 
runs.  I  don't  mean  all  horses  but  some.  I  can  pick 


I      WANT      TO      KNOW      WHY  II 

them  nearly  every  time.  It's  in  my  blood  like  in  the 
blood  of  race  track  niggers  and  trainers.  Even  when 
they  just  go  slop-jogging  along  with  a  little  nigger  on 
their  backs  I  can  tell  a  winner.  If  my  throat  hurts 
and  it's  hard  for  me  to  swallow,  that's  him.  He'll 
run  like  Sam  Hill  when  you  let  him  out.  If  he  don't 
win  every  time  it'll  be  a  wonder  and  because  they've 
got  him  in  a  pocket  behind  another  or  he  was  pulled 
or  got  off  bad  at  the  post  or  something.  If  I  wanted 
to  be  a  gambler  like  Henry  Rieback's  father  I  could 
get  rich.  I  know  I  could  and  Henry  says  so  too.  All 
I  would  have  to  do  is  to  wait  'til  that  hurt  comes  when 
I  see  a  horse  and  then  bet  every  cent.  That's  what  I 
would  do  if  I  wanted  to  be  a  gambler,  but  I  don't. 

When  you're  at  the  tracks  in  the  morning — not  the 
race  tracks  but  the  training  tracks  around  Beckersville 
— you  don't  see  a  horse,  the  kind  I've  been  talking 
about,  very  often,  but  it's  nice  anyway.  Any  thorough 
bred,  that  is  sired  right  and  out  of  a  good  mare  and 
trained  by  a  man  that  knows  how,  can  run.  If  he 
couldn't  what  would  he  be  there  for  and  not  pulling  a 
plow? 

Well,  out  of  the  stables  they  come  and  the  boys 
are  on  their  backs  and  it's  lovely  to  be  there.  You 
hunch  down  on  top  of  the  fence  and  itch  inside  you. 
Over  in  the  sheds  the  niggers  giggle  and  sing.  Bacon 
is  being  fried  and  coffee  made.  Everything  smells 
lovely.  Nothing  smells  better  than  coffee  and  manure 


12         THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

and  horses  and  niggers  and  bacon  frying  and  pipes 
being  smoked  out  of  doors  on  a  morning  like  that. 
It  just  gets  you,  that's  what  it  does. 

But  about  Saratoga.  We  was  there  six  days  and 
not  a  soul  from  home  seen  us  and  everything  came  off 
just  as  we  wanted  it  to,  fine  weather  and  horses  and 
races  and  all.  We  beat  our  way  home  and  Bildad 
gave  us  a  basket  with  fried  chicken  and  bread  and 
other  eatables  in,  and  I  had  eighteen  dollars  when  we 
got  back  to  Beckersville.  Mother  jawed  and  cried 
but  Pop  didn't  say  much.  I  told  everything  we  done 
except  one  thing.  I  did  and  saw  that  alone.  That's 
what  I'm  writing  about.  It  got  me  upset.  I  think 
about  it  at  night.  Here  it  is. 

At  Saratoga  we  laid  up  nights  in  the  hay  in  the  shed 
Bildad  had  showed  us  and  ate  with  the  niggers  early 
and  at  night  when  the  race  people  had  all  gone  away. 
The  men  from  home  stayed  mostly  in  the  grandstand 
and  betting  field,  and  didn't  come  out  around  the 
places  where  the  horses  are  kept  except  to  the  pad 
docks  just  before  a  race  when  the  horses  are  saddled. 
At  Saratoga  they  don't  have  paddocks  under  an  open 
shed  as  at  Lexington  and  Churchill  Downs  and  other 
tracks  down  in  our  country,  but  saddle  the  horses  right 
out  in  an  open  place  under  trees  on  a  lawn  as  smooth 
and  nice  as  Banker  Bohon's  front  yard  here  in  Beck 
ersville.  It's  lovely.  The  horses  are  sweaty  and 
nervous  and  shine  and  the  men  come  out  and  smoke 


I      WANT     TO     KNOW      WHY  13 

cigars  and  look  at  them  and  the  trainers  are  there  and 
the  owners,  and  your  heart  thumps  so  you  can  hardly 
breathe. 

Then  the  bugle  blows  for  post  and  the  boys  that 
ride  come  running  out  with  their  silk  clothes  on  and 
you  run  to  get  a  place  by  the  fence  with  the  niggers. 

I  always  am  wanting  to  be  a  trainer  or  owner,  and 
at  the  risk  of  being  seen  and  caught  and  sent  home  I 
went  to  the  paddocks  before  every  race.  The  other 
boys  didn't  but  I  did. 

We  got  to  Saratoga  on  a  Friday  and  on  Wednes 
day  the  next  week  the  big  Mullford  Handicap  was  to 
be  run.  Middlestride  was  in  it  and  Sunstreak.  The 
weather  was  fine  and  the  track  fast.  I  couldn't  sleep 
the  night  before. 

What  had  happened  was  that  both  these  horses  are 
the  kind  it  makes  my  throat  hurt  to  see.  Middlestride 
is  long  and  looks  awkward  and  is  a  gelding.  He  be 
longs  to  Joe  Thompson,  a  little  owner  from  home  who 
only  has  a  half  dozen  horses.  The  Mullford  Handi 
cap  is  for  a  mile  and  Middlestride  can't  untrack  fast. 
He  goes  away  slow  and  is  always  way  back  at  the 
half,  then  he  begins  to  run  and  if  the  race  is  a  mile 
and  a  quarter  he'll  just  eat  up  everything  and  get 
there. 

Sunstreak  is  different.  He  is  a  stallion  and  nervous 
and  belongs  on  the  biggest  farm  weVe  got  in  our  coun- 


14        THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

try,  the  Van  Riddle  place  that  belongs  to  Mr.  Van 
Riddle  of  New  York.  Sunstreak  is  like  a  girl  you 
think  about  sometimes  but  never  see.  He  is  hard  all 
over  and  lovely  too.  When  you  look  at  his  head  you 
want  to  kiss  him.  He  is  trained  by  Jerry  Tillford  who 
knows  me  and  has  been  good  to  me  lots  of  times,  lets 
me  walk  into  a  horse's  stall  to  look  at  him  close  and 
other  things.  There  isn't  anything  as  sweet  as  that 
horse.  He  stands  at  the  post  quiet  and  not  letting 
on,  but  he  is  just  burning  up  inside.  Then  when  the 
barrier  goes  up  he  is  off  like  his  name,  Sunstreak.  It 
makes  you  ache  to  see  him.  It  hurts  you.  He  just 
lays  down  and  runs  like  a  bird  dog.  There  can't  any 
thing  I  ever  see  run  like  him  except  Middlestride  when 
he  gets  untracked  and  stretches  himself. 

Gee !  I  ached  to  see  that  race  and  those  two  horses 
run,  ached  and  dreaded  it  too.  I  didn't  want  to  see 
either  of  our  horses  beaten.  We  had  never  sent  a 
pair  like  that  to  the  races  before.  Old  men  in  Beck- 
ersville  said  so  and  the  niggers  said  so.  It  was  a 
fact. 

Before  the  race  I  went  over  to  the  paddocks  to  see. 
I  looked  a  last  look  at  Middlestride,  who  isn't  such  a 
much  standing  in  a  paddock  that  way,  then  I  went  to 
see  Sunstreak. 

It  was  his  day.  I  knew  when  I  see  him.  I  forgot 
all  about  being  seen  myself  and  walked  right  up.  All 
the  men  from  Beckersville  were  there  and  no  one 


I      WANT      TO      KNOW      WHY  15 

noticed  me  except  Jerry  Tillford.  He  saw  me  and 
something  happened.  I'll  tell  you  about  that. 

I  was  standing  looking  at  that  horse  and  aching. 
In  some  way,  I  can't  tell  how,  I  knew  just  how  Sun- 
streak  felt  inside.  He  was  quiet  and  letting  the 
niggers  rub  his  legs  and  Mr.  Van  Riddle  himself  put 
the  saddle  on,  but  he  was  just  a  raging  torrent  inside. 
He  was  like  the  water  in  the  river  at  Niagara  Falls 
just  before  its  goes  plunk  down.  That  horse  wasn't 
thinking  about  running.  He  don't  have  to  think  about 
that.  He  was  just  thinking  about  holding  himself 
back  'til  the  time  for  the  running  came.  I  knew  that. 
I  could  just  in  a  way  see  right  inside  him.  He  was 
going  to  do  some  awful  running  and  I  knew  it.  He 
wasn't  bragging  or  letting  on  much  or  prancing  or  mak 
ing  a  fuss,  but  just  waiting.  I  knew  it  and  Jerry  Till 
ford  his  trainer  knew.  I  looked  up  and  then  that  man 
and  I  looked  into  each  other's  eyes.  Something  hap 
pened  to  me.  I  guess  I  loved  the  man  as  much  as  I 
did  the  horse  because  he  knew  what  I  knew.  Seemed 
to  me  there  wasn't  anything  in  the  world  but  that 
man  and  the  horse  and  me.  I  cried  and  Jerry  Tillford 
had  a  shine  in  his  eyes.  Then  I  came  away  to  the 
fence  to  wait  for  the  race.  /  The  horse  was  better  than 
me,  more  steadier,  and  now  I  know  better  than  Jerry. 
He  was  the  quietest  and  he  had  to  do  the  running. 

Sunstreak  ran  first  of  course  and  he  busted  the 
world's  record  for  a  mile.  I've  seen  that  if  I  never 


l6         THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

see  anything  more.  Everything  came  out  just  as  I  ex 
pected.  Middlestride  got  left  at  the  post  and  was 
way  back  and  closed  up  to  be  second,  just  as  I  knew 
he  would.  He'll  get  a  world's  record  too  some  day. 
They  can't  skin  the  Beckersville  country  on  horses. 

I  watched  the  race  calm  because  I  knew  what  would 
happen.  I  was  sure.  Hanley  Turner  and  Henry  Rie- 
back  and  Tom  Tumberton  were  all  more  excited  than 
me. 

A  funny  thing  had  happened  to  me.  I  was  thinking 
about  Jerry  Tillford  the  trainer  and  how  happy  he  was 
all  through  the  race.  I  liked  him  that  afternoon  even 
more  than  I  ever  liked  my  own  father.  I  almost  for 
got  the  horses  thinking  that  way  about  him.  It  was 
because  of  what  I  had  seen  in  his  eyes  as  he  stood  in 
the  paddocks  beside  Sunstreak  before  the  race  started. 
I  knew  he  had  been  watching  and  working  with  Sun- 
streak  since  the  horse  was  a  baby  colt,  had  taught  him 
to  run  and  be  patient  and  when  to  let  himself  out  and 
not  to  quit,  never.  I  knew  that  for  him  it  was  like  a 
mother  seeing  her  child  do  something  brave  or  wonder 
ful.  It  was  the  first  time  I  ever  felt  for  a  man  like 
that. 

After  the  race  that  night  I  cut  out  from  Tom  and 
Hanley  and  Henry.  I  wanted  to  be  by  myself  and  I 
wanted  to  be  near  Jerry  Tillford  if  I  could  work  it. 
Here  is  what  happened. 

The  track  in  Saratoga  is  near  the  edge  of  town.    It 


I      WANT      TO      KNOW      WHY  I? 

is  all  polished  up  and  trees  around,  the  evergreen  kind, 
and  grass  and  everything  painted  and  nice.  If  you  go 
past  the  track  you  get  to  a  hard  road  made  of  asphalt 
for  automobiles,  and  if  you  go  along  this  for  a  few 
miles  there  is  a  road  turns  off  to  a  little  rummy-looking 
farm  house  set  in  a  yard. 

That  night  after  the  race  I  went  along  that  road 
because  I  had  seen  Jerry  and  some  other  men  go  that 
way  in  an  automobile.  I  didn't  expect  to  find  them. 
I  walked  for  a  ways  and  then  sat  down  by  a  fence  to 
think.  It  was  the  direction  they  went  in.  I  wanted  to 
be  as  near  Jerry  as  I  could.  I  felt  close  to  him. 
Pretty  soon  I  went  up  the  side  road — I  don't  know 
why — and  came  to  the  rummy  farm  house.  I  was 
just  lonesome  to  see  Jerry,  like  wanting  to  see  your 
father  at  night  when  you  are  a  young  kid.  Just  then 
an  automobile  came  along  and  turned  in.  Jerry  was 
in  it  and  Henry  Rieback's  father,  and  Arthur  Bedford 
from  home,  and  Dave  Williams  and  two  other  men  I 
didn't  know.  They  got  out  of  the  car  and  went  into 
the  house,  all  but  Henry  Rieback's  father  who  quar 
reled  with  them  and  said  he  wouldn't  go.  It  was  only 
about  nine  o'clock,  but  they  were  all  drunk  and  the 
rummy  looking  farm  house  was  a  place  for  bad  women 
to  stay  in.  That's  what  it  was.  I  crept  up  along  a 
fence  and  looked  through  a  window  and  saw. 

It's  what  give  me  the  fantods.  I  can't  make  it  out. 
The  women  in  the  house  were  all  ugly  mean-looking 


l8         THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

women,  not  nice  to  look  at  or  be  near.  They  were 
homely  too,  except  one  who  was  tall  and  looked  a 
little  like  the  gelding  Middlestride,  but  not  clean  like 
him,  but  with  a  hard  ugly  mouth.  She  had  red  hair.  I 
saw  everything  plain.  I  got  up  by  an  old  rose  bush 
by  an  open  window  and  looked.  The  women  had  on 
loose  dresses  and  sat  around  in  chairs.  The  men  came 
in  and  some  sat  on  the  women's  laps.  The  place 
smelled  rotten  and  there  was  rotten  talk,  the  kind  a 
kid  hears  around  a  livery  stable  in  a  town  like  Beck- 
ersville  in  the  winter  but  don't  ever  expect  to  hear 
talked  when  there  are  women  around.  It  was  rotten. 
A  nigger  wouldn't  go  into  such  a  place. 

I  looked  at  Jerry  Tillford.  I've  told  you  how  I  had 
been  feeling  about  him  on  account  of  his  knowing  what 
was  going  on  inside  of  Sunstreak  in  the  minute  before 
he  went  to  the  post  for  the  race  in  which  he  made  a 
world's  record. 

Jerry  bragged  in  that  bad  woman  house  as  I  know 
Sunstreak  wouldn't  never  have  bragged.  He  said  that 
he  made  that  horse,  that  it  was  him  that  won  the  race 
and  made  the  record.  He  lied  and  bragged  like  a  fool. 
I  never  heard  such  silly  talk. 

And  then,  what  do  you  suppose  he  did !  He  looked 
at  the  woman  in  there,  the  one  that  was  lean  and  hard- 
mouthed  and  looked  a  little  like  the  gelding  Middle- 
stride,  but  not  clean  like  him,  and  his  eyes  began  to 
shine  just  as  they  did  when  he  looked  at  me  and  at 


I     WANT     TO     KNOW     WHY  19 

Sunstreak  in  the  paddocks  at  the  track  in  the  after 
noon.  I  stood  there  by  the  window — gee! — but  I 
wished  I  hadn't  gone  away  from  the  tracks,  but  had 
stayed  with  the  boys  and  the  niggers  and  the  horses. 
The  tall  rotten  looking  woman  was  between  us  just 
as  Sunstreak  was  in  the  paddocks  in  the  afternoon. 

Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  I  began  to  hate  that  man.  I 
wanted  to  scream  and  rush  in  the  room  and  kill  him. 
I  never  had  such  a  feeling  before.  I  was  so  mad  clean 
through  that  I  cried  and  my  fists  were  doubled  up  so 
my  finger  nails  cut  my  hands. 

And  Jerry's  eyes  kept  shining  and  he  waved  back  and 
forth,  and  then  he  went  and  kissed  that  woman  and  I 
crept  away  and  went  back  to  the  tracks  and  to  bed 
and  didn't  sleep  hardly  any,  and  then  next  day  I  got 
the  other  kids  to  start  home  with  me  and  never  told 
them  anything  I  seen. 

I  been  thinking  about  it  ever  since.  I  can't  make  it 
out.  Spring  has  come  again  and  I'm  nearly  sixteen 
and  go  to  the  tracks  mornings  same  as  always,  and  I 
see  Sunstreak  and  Middlestride  and  a  new  colt  named 
Strident  I'll  bet  will  lay  them  all  out,  but  no  one 
thinks  so  but  me  and  two  or  three  niggers. 

But  things  are  different.  At  the  tracks  the  air 
don't  taste  as  good  or  smell  as  good.  It's  because  a 
man  like  Jerry  Tillford,  who  knows  what  he  does, 
could  see  a  horse  like  Sunstreak  run,  and  kiss  a  woman 
like  that  the  same  day.  I  can't  make  it  out.  Darn 


2O        THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

him,  what  did  he  want  to  do  like  that  for?  I  keep 
thinking  about  it  and  it  spoils  looking  at  horses  and 
smelling  things  and  hearing  niggers  laugh  and  every 
thing.  Sometimes  I'm  so  mad  about  it  I  want  to  fight 
someone.  It  gives  me  the  fantods.  What  did  he  do  it 
for?  I  want  to  know  why. 


SEEDS 

1LTE  WAS  a  small  man  with  a  beard  and  was  very 
nervous.  I  remember  how  the  cords  of  his  neck 
were  drawn  taut. 

For  years  he  had  been  trying  to  cure  people  of  ill 
ness  by  the  method  called  psychoanalysis.  The  idea 
was  the  passion  of  his  life.  "I  came  here  because  I 
am  tired,"  he  said  dejectedly.  uMy  body  is  not  tired 
but  something  inside  me  is  old  and  worn-out.  I  want 
joy.  For  a  few  days  or  weeks  I  would  like  to  forget 
men  and  women  and  the  influences  that  make  them 
the  sick  things  they  are." 

There  is  a  note  that  comes  into  the  human  voice 
by  which  you  may  know  real  weariness.  It  comes  when 
one  has  been  trying  with  all  his  heart  and  soul  to  think 
his  way  along  some  difficult  road  of  thought.  Of  a 
sudden  he  finds  himself  unable  to  go  on.  Something 
within  him  stops.  A  tiny  explosion  takes  place.  He 
bursts  into  words  and  talks,  perhaps  foolishly.  Little 
side  currents  of  his  nature  he  didn't  know  were  there 
run  out  and  get  themselves  expressed.  It  is  at  such 
times  that  a  man  boasts,  uses  big  words,  makes  a  fool 
of  himself  in  general. 

And  so  it  was  the  doctor  became  shrill.  He  jumped 

21 


22         THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE       EGG 

up  from  the  steps  where  we  had  been  sitting,  talk 
ing  and  walked  about.  "You  come  from  the  West. 
You  have  kept  away  from  people.  You  have  pre 
served  yourself — damn  you!"  I  haven't — "  His  voice 
had  indeed  become  shrill.  "I  have  entered  into  lives. 
I  have  gone  beneath  the  surface  of  the  lives  of  men 
and  women.  Women  especially  I  have  studied — our 
own  women,  here  in  America." 

"You  have  loved  them?"  I  suggested. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "Yes — you  are  right  there.  I  have 
done  that.  It  is  the  only  way  I  can  get  at  things.  I 
have  to  try  to  love.  You  see  how  that  is?  It's  the 
only  way.  Love  must  be  the  beginning  of  things  with 


me." 


I  began  to  sense  the  depths  of  his  weariness.  "We 
will  go  swim  in  the  lake,"  I  urged. 

"I  don't  want  to  swim  or  do  any  damn  plodding 
thing.  I  want  to  run  and  shout,"  he  declared.  "For 
awhile,  for  a  few  hours,  I  want  to  be  like  a  dead  leaf 
blown  by  the  winds  over  these  hills.  I  have  one  de 
sire  and  one  only — to  free  myself." 

We  walked  in  a  dusty  country  road.  I  wanted  him 
to  know  that  I  thought  I  understood,  so  I  put  the  case 
in  my  own  way. 

When  he  stopped  and  stared  at  me  I  talked.  "You 
are  no  more  and  no  better  than  myself,"  I  declared. 
"You  are  a  dog  that  has  rolled  in  offal,  and  because  you 


SEEDS  23 

are  not  quite  a  dog  you  do  not  like  the  smell  of  your 
own  hide." 

In  turn  my  voice  became  shrill.  uYou  blind  fool," 
I  cried  impatiently.  "Men  like  you  are  fools.  You 
cannot  go  along  that  road.  It  is  given  to  no  man  to 
venture  far  along  the  road  of  lives." 

I  became  passionately  in  earnest.  "The  illness  you 
pretend  to  cure  is  the  universal  illness,"  I  said.  "The 
thing  you  want  to  do  cannot  be  done.  Fool — do  you 
expect  love  to  be  understood?" 

We  stood  in  the  road  and  looked  at  each  other. 
The  suggestion  of  a  sneer  played  about  the  corners  of 
his  mouth.  He  put  a  hand  on  my  shoulder  and  shook 
me.  "How  smart  we  are — how  aptly  we  put  things!" 

He  spat  the  words  out  and  then  turned  and  walked 
a  little  away.  "You  think  you  understand,  but  you 
don't  understand,"  he  cried.  "What  you  say  can't  be 
done  can  be  done.  You're  a  liar.  You  cannot  be  so 
definite  without  missing  something  vague  and  fine.  You 
miss  the  whole  point.  The  lives  of  people  are  like 
young  trees  in  a  forest.  They  are  being  choked  by 
climbing  vines.  The  vines  are  old  thoughts  and  be 
liefs  planted  by  dead  men.  I  am  myself  covered  by 
crawling  creeping  vines  that  choke  me." 

He  laughed  bitterly.  "And  that's  why  I  want  to 
run  and  play,"  he  said.  "I  want  to  be  a  leaf  blown 
by  the  wind  over  hills.  I  want  to  die  and  be  born 
again,  and  I  am  only  a  tree  covered  with  vines  and 


24         THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

slowly  dying.  I  am,  you  see,  weary  and  want  to  be 
made  clean.  I  am  an  amateur  venturing  timidly  into 
lives,*1  he  concluded.  "I  am  weary  and  want  to  be 
made  clean.  I  am  covered  by  creeping  crawling 

things." 

*       *       * 

A  woman  from  Iowa  came  here  to  Chicago  and 
took  a  room  in  a  house  on  the  west-side.  She  was  about 
twenty-seven  years  old  and  ostensibly  she  came  to  the 
city  to  study  advanced  methods  for  teaching  music. 

A  certain  young  man  also  lived  in  the  west-side 
house.  His  room  faced  a  long  hall  on  the  second  floor 
of  the  house  and  the  one  taken  by  the  woman  was 
across  the  hall  facing  his  room. 

In  regard  to  the  young  man — there  is  something 
very  sweet  in  his  nature.  He  is  a  painter  but  I  have 
often  wished  he  would  decide  to  become  a  writer.  He 
tells  things  with  understanding  and  he  does  not  paint 
brilliantly. 

And  so  the  woman  from  Iowa  lived  in  the  west-side 
house  and  came  home  from  the  city  in  the  evening. 
She  looked  like  a  thousand  other  women  one  sees 
in  the  streets  every  day.  The  only  thing  that  at  all 
made  her  stand  out  among  the  women  in  the  crowds 
was  that  she  was  a  little  lame.  Her  right  foot  was 
slightly  deformed  and  she  walked  with  a  limp.  For 
three  months  she  lived  in  the  house — where  she  was 
the  only  woman  except  the  landlady — and  then  a  feel- 


SEEDS  25 

ing  in  regard  to  her  began  to  grow  up  among  the  men 
of  the  house. 

The  men  all  said  the  same  thing  concerning  her. 
When  they  met  in  the  hallway  at  the  front  of  the 
house  they  stopped,  laughed  and  whispered.  "She 
wants  a  lover,"  they  said  and  winked.  "She  may  not 
know  it  but  a  lover  is  what  she  needs." 

One  knowing  Chicago  and  Chicago  men  would 
think  that  an  easy  want  to  be  satisfied.  I  laughed 
when  my  friend — whose  name  is  LeRoy — told  me  the 
story,  but  he  did  not  laugh.  He  shook  his  head.  "It 
wasn't  so  easy,"  he  said.  "There  would  be  no  story 
were  the  matter  that  simple." 

LeRoy  tried  to  explain.  "Whenever  a  man  ap 
proached  her  she  became  alarmed,"  he  said.  Men 
kept  smiling  and  speaking  to  her.  They  invited  her 
to  dinner  and  to  the  theatre,  but  nothing  would  induce 
her  to  walk  in  the  streets  with  a  man.  She  never  went 
into  the  streets  at  night.  When  a  man  stopped  and 
tried  to  talk  with  her  in  the  hallway  she  turned  her 
eyes  to  the  floor  and  then  ran  into  her  room.  Once 
a  young  drygoods  clerk  who  lived  there  induced  her 
to  sit  with  him  on  the  steps  before  the  house. 

He  was  a  sentimental  fellow  and  took  hold  of  her 
hand.  When  she  began  to  cry  he  was  alarmed  and 
arose.  He  put  a  hand  on  her  shoulder  and  tried  to  ex 
plain,  but  under  the  touch  of  his  fingers  her  whole 
body  shook  with  terror.  "Don't  touch  me,"  she  cried, 


26         THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

"don't  let  your  hands  touch  me!1'  She  began  to 
scream  and  people  passing  in  the  street  stopped  to 
listen.  The  drygoods  clerk  was  alarmed  and  ran  up 
stairs  to  his  own  room.  He  bolted  the  door  and  stood 
listening.  "It  is  a  trick,11  he  declared  in  a  trembling 
voice.  "She  is  trying  to  make  trouble.  I  did  nothing 
to  her.  It  was  an  accident  and  anyway  what's  the 
matter?  I  only  touched  her  arm  with  my  fingers.11 

Perhaps  a  dozen  times  LeRoy  has  spoken  to  me  of 
the  experience  of  the  Iowa  woman  in  the  west-side 
house.  The  men  there  began  to  hate  her.  Although 
she  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  them  she  would  not 
let  them  alone.  In  a  hundred  ways  she  continually 
invited  approaches  that  when  made  she  repelled.  When 
she  stood  naked  in  the  bathroom  facing  the  hallway 
where  the  men  passed  up  and  down  she  left  the  door 
slightly  ajar.  There  was  a  couch  in  the  living  room 
down  stairs,  and  when  men  were  present  she  would 
sometimes  enter  and  without  saying  a  word  throw  her 
self  down  before  them.  On  the  couch  she  lay  with  lips 
drawn  slightly  apart.  Her  eyes  stared  at  the  ceiling. 
Her  whole  physical  being  seemed  to  be  waiting  for 
something.  The  sense  of  her  filled  the  room.  The 
men  standing  about  pretended  not  to  see.  They  talked 
loudly.  Embarrassment  took  possession  of  them  and 
one  by  one  they  crept  quietly  away. 

One  evening  the  woman  was  ordered  to  leave  the 
house.  Someone,  perhaps  the  drygoods  clerk,  had 


SEEDS  27 

talked  to  the  landlady  and  she  acted  at  once.  "If  you 
leave  tonight  I  shall  like  it  that  much  better,"  LeRoy 
heard  the  elder  woman's  voice  saying.  She  stood  in 
the  hallway  before  the  Iowa  woman's  room.  The 
landlady's  voice  rang  through  the  house. 

LeRoy  the  painter  is  tall  and  lean  and  his  life  has 
been  spent  in  devotion  to  ideas.  The  passions  of  his 
brain  have  consumed  the  passions  of  his  body.  His 
income  is  small  and  he  has  not  married.  Perhaps  he 
has  never  had  a  sweetheart.  He  is  not  without  physi 
cal  desire  but  he  is  not  primarily  concerned  with  desire. 

On  the  evening  when  the  Iowa  woman  was  ordered 
to  leave  the  west-side  house,  she  waited  until  she 
thought  the  landlady  had  gone  down  stairs,  and  then 
went  into  LeRoy' s  room.  It  was  about  eight  o'clock 
and  he  sat  by  a  window  reading  a  book.  The  woman 
did  not  knock  but  opened  the  door.  She  said  nothing 
but  ran  across  the  floor  and  knelt  at  his  feet.  LeRoy 
said  that  her  twisted  foot  made  her  run  like  a  wounded 
bird,  that  her  eyes  were  burning  and  that  her  breath 
came  in  little  gasps.  "Take  me,"  she  said,  putting 
her  face  down  upon  his  knees  and  trembling  violently. 
"Take  me  quickly.  There  must  be  a  beginning  to 
things.  I  can't  stand  the  waiting.  You  must  take  me 


at  once." 


You  may  be  quite  sure  LeRoy  was  perplexed  by  all 
this.  From  what  he  has  said  I  gathered  that  until  that 
evening  he  had  hardly  noticed  the  woman.  I  suppose 


28         THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

that  of  all  the  men  in  the  house  he  had  been  the  most 
indifferent  to  her.  In  the  room  something  happened. 
The  landlady  followed  the  woman  when  she  ran  to  Le- 
Roy,  and  the  two  women  confronted  him.  The  woman 
from  Iowa  knelt  trembling  and  frightened  at  his  feet. 
The  landlady  was  indignant.  LeRoy  acted  on  im 
pulse.  An  inspiration  came  to  him.  Putting  his  hand  on 
the  kneeling  woman's  shoulder  he  shook  her  violently. 
"Now  behave  yourself,"  he  said  quickly.  "I  will  keep 
my  promise."  He  turned  to  the  landlady  and  smiled. 
"We  have  been  engaged  to  be  married,"  he  said.  "We 
have  quarreled.  She  came  here  to  be  near  me.  She 
has  been  unwell  and  excited.  I  will  take  her  away. 
Please  don't  let  yourself  be  annoyed.  I  will  take  her 
away." 

When  the  woman  and  LeRoy  got  out  of  the  house 
she  stopped  weeping  and  put  her  hand  into  his.  Her 
fears  had  all  gone  away.  He  found  a  room  for  her  in 
another  house  and  then  went  with  her  into  a  park  and 

sat  on  a  bench. 

*       *       * 

Everything  LeRoy  has  told  me  concerning  this 
woman  strengthens  my  belief  in  what  I  said  to  the  man 
that  day  in  the  mountains.  You  cannot  venture  along 
the  road  of  lives.  On  the  bench  he  and  the  woman 
talked  until  midnight  and  he  saw  and  talked  with  her 
many  times  later.  Nothing  came  of  it.  She  went 
back,  I  suppose,  to  her  place  in  the  West. 


S  E  £  D  S  29 

In  the  place  from  which  she  had  come  the  woman 
had  been  a  teacher  of  music.  She  was  one  of  four 
sisters,  all  engaged  in  the  same  sort  of  work  and,  Le- 
Roy  says,  all  quiet  capable  women.  Their  father  had 
died  when  the  eldest  girl  was  not  yet  ten,  and  five  years 
later  the  mother  died  also.  The  girls  had  a  house  and 
a  garden. 

In  the  nature  of  things  I  cannot  know  what  the  lives 
of  the  women  were  like  but  of  this  one  may  be  quite 
certain — they  talked  only  of  women's  affairs,  thought 
only  of  women's  affairs.  No  one  of  them  ever  had  a 
lover.  For  years  no  man  came  near  the  house. 

Of  them  all  only  the  youngest,  the  one  who  came  to 
Chicago,  was  visibly  affected  by  the  utterly  feminine 
quality  of  their  lives.  It  did  something  to  her.  All 
day  and  every  day  she  taught  music  to  young  girls 
and  then  went  home  to  the  women.  When  she  was 
twenty-five  she  began  to  think  and  to  dream  of  men. 
During  the  day  and  through  the  evening  she  talked 
with  women  of  women's  affairs,  and  all  the  time  she 
wanted  desperately  to  be  loved  by  a  man.  She  went 
to  Chicago  with  that  hope  in  mind.  LeRoy  explained 
her  attitude  in  the  matter  and  her  strange  behavior  in 
the  west-side  house  by  saying  she  had  thought  too 
much  and  acted  too  little.  "The  life  force  within  her 
became  decentralized,"  he  declared.  "What  she 
wanted  she  could  not  achieve.  The  living  force  within 
could  not  find  expression.  When  it  could  not  get  ex- 


30        THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

pressed  in  one  way  it  took  another.  Sex  spread  itself 
out  over  her  body.  It  permeated  the  very  fibre  of  her 
being.  At  the  last  she  was  sex  personified,  sex  become 
condensed  and  impersonal.  Certain  words,  the  touch 
of  a  man's  hand,  sometimes  even  the  sight  of  a  man 

passing  in  the  street  did  something  to  her." 

*..*.* 

Yesterday  I  saw  LeRoy  and  he  talked  to  me  again 
of  the  woman  and  her  strange  and  terrible  fate. 

We  walked  in  the  park  by  the  lake.  As  we  went 
along  the  figure  of  the  woman  kept  coming  into  my 
mind.  An  idea  came  to  me. 

"You  might  have  been  her  lover,"  I  said.  "That 
was  possible.  She  was  not  afraid  of  you." 

LeRoy  stopped.  Like  the  doctor  who  was  so  sure 
of  his  ability  to  walk  into  lives  he  grew  angry  and 
scolded.  For  a  moment  he  stared  at  me  and  then  a 
rather  odd  thing  happened.  Words  said  by  the  other 
man  in  the  dusty  road  in  the  hills  came  to  LeRoy's 
lips  and  were  said  over  again.  The  suggestion  of  a 
sneer  played  about  the  corners  of  his  mouth.  "How 
smart  we  are.  How  aptly  we  put  things,"  he  said. 

The  voice  of  the  young  man  who  walked  with  me 
in  the  park  by  the  lake  in  the  city  became  shrill.  I 
sensed  the  weariness  in  him.  Then  he  laughed  and 
said  quietly  and  softly,  "It  isn't  so  simple.  By  being 
sure  of  yourself  you  are  in  danger  of  losing  all  of 
the  romance  of  life.  You  miss  the  whole  point.  Noth- 


SEEDS  31 

ing  in  life  can  be  settled  so  definitely.  The  woman— 
you  see — was  like  a  young  tree  choked  by  a  climbing 
vine.  The  thing  that  wrapped  her  about  had  shut 
out  the  light.  She  was  a  grotesque  as  many  trees  in 
the  forest  are  grotesques.  Her  problem  was  such  a 
difficult  one  that  thinking  of  it  has  changed  the  whole 
current  of  my  life.  At  first  I  was  like  you.  I  was 
quite  sure.  I  thought  I  would  be  her  lover  and  settle 
the  matter." 

LeRoy  turned  and  walked  a  little  away.  Then  he 
came  back  and  took  hold  of  my  arm.  A  passionate 
earnestness  took  possession  of  him.  His  voice 
trembled.  "She  needed  a  lover,  yes,  the  men  in  the 
house  were  quite  right  about  that,"  he  said.  "She 
needed  a  lover  and  at  the  same  time  a  lover  was  not 
what  she  needed.  The  need  of  a  lover  was,  after 
all,  a  quite  secondary  thing.  She  needed  to  be  loved, 
to  be  long  and  quietly  and  patiently  loved.  To  be 
sure  she  is  a  grotesque,  but  then  all  the  people  in  the 
world  are  grotesques.  We  all  need  to  be  loved.  What 
would  cure  her  would  cure  the  rest  of  us  also.  The 
disease  she  had  is,  you  see,  universal.  We  all  want 
to  be  loved  and  the  world  has  no  plan  for  creating 
our  lovers." 

LeRoy's  voice  dropped  and  he  walked  beside  me  in 
silence.  We  turned  away  from  the  lake  and  walked 
under  trees.  I  looked  closely  at  him.  The  cords  of 
his  neck  were  drawn  taut.  "I  have  seen  under  the 


32         THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

shell  of  life  and  I  am  afraid,"  he  mused.  "I  am 
myself  like  the  woman.  I  am  covered  with  creeping 
crawling  vine-like  things.  I  cannot  be  a  lover.  I  am 
not  subtle  or  patient  enough.  I  am  paying  old  debts. 
Old  thoughts  and  beliefs — seeds  planted  by  dead  men 
— spring  up  in  my  soul  and  choke  me." 

For  a  long  time  we  walked  and  LeRoy  talked,  voic 
ing  the  thoughts  that  came  into  his  mind.  I  listened 
in  silence.  His  mind  struck  upon  the  refrain  voiced  by 
the  man  in  the  mountains.  "I  would  like  to  be  a  dead 
dry  thing,"  he  muttered  looking  at  the  leaves  scattered 
over  the  grass.  "I  would  like  to  be  a  leaf  blown  away 
by  the  wind."  He  looked  up  and  his  eyes  turned  to 
where  among  the  trees  we  could  see  the  lake  in  the 
distance.  "I  am  weary  and  want  to  be  made  clean.  I 
am  a  man  .covered  by  creeping  crawling  things.  I 
would  like  to  be  dead  and  blown  by  the  wind  over 
limitless  waters,"  he  said.  "I  want  more  than  any 
thing  else- in  the  world  to  be  clean." 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN 

*l  T  AM  in  love  with  my  wife,"  he  said — a  super- 
flous  remark,  as  I  had  not  questioned  his  attach 
ment  to  the  woman  he  had  married.  We  walked  for 
ten  minutes  and  then  he  said  it  again.  I  turned  to  look 
at  him.  He  began  to  talk  and  told  me  the  tale  I  am 
now  about  to  set  down. 

The  thing  he  had  on  his  mind  happened  during  what 
must  have  been  the  most  eventful  week  of  his  life.  He 
was  to  be  married  on  Friday  afternoon.  On  Friday  of 
the  week  before  he  got  a  telegram  announcing  his  ap 
pointment  to  a  government  position.  Something  else 
happened  that  made  him  very  proud  and  glad.  In 
secret  he  was  in  the  habit  of  writing  verses  and  during 
the  year  before  several  of  them  had  been  printed  in 
poetry  magazines.  One  of  the  societies  that  give 
prizes  for  what  they  think  the  best  poems  published 
during  the  year  put  his  name  at  the  head  of  its  list. 
The  story  of  his  triumph  was  printed  in  the  newspapers 
of  his  home  city  and  one  of  them  also  printed  his  pic 
ture. 

As  might  have  been  expected  he  was  excited  and  in 
a  rather  highly  strung  nervous  state  all  during  that 
week.  Almost  every  evening  he  went  to  call  on  his 
fiancee,  the  daughter  of  a  judge.  When  he  got  there 

33 


34         THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

the  house  was  filled  with  people  and  many  letters,  tele 
grams  and  packages  were  being  received.  He  stood  a 
little  to  one  side  and  men  and  women  kept  coming  up 
to  speak  to  him.  They  congratulated  him  upon  his 
success  in  getting  the  government  position  and  on  his 
achievement  as  a  poet.  Everyone  seemed  to  be  prais 
ing  him  and  when  he  went  home  and  to  bed  he  could  not 
sleep.  On  Wednesday  evening  he  went  to  the  theatre 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  people  all  over  the  house 
recognized  him.  Everyone  nodded  and  smiled.  After 
the  first  act  five  or  six  men  and  two  women  left  their 
seats  to  gather  about  him.  A  little  group  was  formed. 
Strangers  sitting  along  the  same  row  of  seats  stretched 
their  necks  and  looked.  He  had  never  received  so 
much  attention  before,  and  now  a  fever  of  expectancy 
took  possession  of  him. 

As  he  explained  when  he  told  me  of  his  experience, 
it  was  for  him  an  altogether  abnormal  time.  He  felt 
like  one  floating  in  air.  When  he  got  into  bed  after 
seeing  so  many  people  and  hearing  so  many  words  of 
praise  his  head  whirled  round  and  round.  When  he 
closed  his  eyes  a  crowd  of  people  invaded  his  room. 
It  seemed  as  though  the  minds  of  all  the  people  of  his 
city  were  centred  on  himself.  The  most  absurd 
fancies  took  possession  of  him.  He  imagined  himself 
riding  in  a  carriage  through  the  streets  of  a  city. 
Windows  were  thrown  open  and  people  ran  out  at 
the  doors  of  houses.  "There  he  is.  That's  him," 


THE      OTHER      WOMAN  35 

they  shouted,  and  at  the  words  a  glad  cry  arose.  The 
carriage  drove  into  a  street  blocked  with  people.  A 
hundred  thousand  pairs  of  eyes  looked  up  at  him. 
"There  you  are !  What  a  fellow  you  have  managed  to 
make  of  yourself  I"  the  eyes  seemed  to  be  saying. 

My  friend  could  not  explain  whether  the  excitement 
of  the  people  was  due  to  the  fact  that  he  had  written 
a  new  poem  or  whether,  in  his  new  government  posi 
tion,  he  had  performed  some  notable  act.  The  apart 
ment  where  he  lived  at  that  time  was  on  a  street 
perched  along  the  top  of  a  cliff  far  out  at  the  edge 
of  his  city,  and  from  his  bedroom  window  he  could 
look  down  over  trees  and  factory  roofs  to  a  river.  As 
he  could  not  sleep  and  as  the  fancies  that  kept  crowd 
ing  in  upon  him  only  made  him  more  excited,  he  got 
out  of  bed  and  tried  to  think. 

As  would  be  natural  under  such  circumstances,  he 
tried  to  control  his  thoughts,  but  when  he  sat  by  the 
window  and  was  wide  awake  a  most  unexpected  and 
humiliating  thing  happened.  The  night  was  clear  and 
fine.  There  was  a  moon.  He  wanted  to  dream  of 
the  woman  who  was  to  be  his  wife,  to  think  out  lines 
for  noble  poems  or  make  plans  that  would  affect  his 
career.  Much  to  his  surprise  his  mind  refused  to  do 
anything  of  the  sort. 

At  a  corner  of  the  street  where  he  lived  there  was 
a  small  cigar  store  and  newspaper  stand  run  by  a  fat 
man  of  forty  and  his  wife,  a  small  active  woman  with 


36         THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

bright  grey  eyes.  In  the  morning  he  stopped  there 
to  buy  a  paper  before  going  down  to  the  city.  Some 
times  he  saw  only  the  fat  man,  but  often  the  man  had 
disappeared  and  the  woman  waited  on  him.  She  was, 
as  he  assured  me  at  least  twenty  times  in  telling  me  his 
tale,  a  very  ordinary  person  with  nothing  special  or 
notable  about  her,  but  for  some  reason  he  could  not 
explain,  being  in  her  presence  stirred  him  profoundly. 
During  that  week  in  the  midst  of  his  distraction  she 
was  the  only  person  he  knew  who  stood  out  clear  and 
distinct  in  his  mind.  When  he  wanted  so  much  to  think 
noble  thoughts  he  could  think  only  of  her.  Before  he 
knew  what  was  happening  his  imagination  had  taken 
hold  of  the  notion  of  having  a  love  affair  with  -the 
woman. 

"I  could  not  understand  myself,"  he  declared,  in  tell 
ing  me  the  story.  "At  night,  when  the  city  was  quiet 
and  when  I  should  have  been  asleep,  I  thought  about 
her  all  the  time.  After  two  or  three  days  of  that  sort 
of  thing  the  consciousness  of  her  got  into  my  daytime 
thoughts.  I  was  terribly  muddled.  When  I  went  to 
see  the  woman  who  is  now  my  wife  I  found  that  my 
love  for  her  was  in  no  way  affected  by  my  vagrant 
thoughts.  There  was  but  one  woman  in  the  world  I 
wanted  to  live  with  and  to  be  my  comrade  in  undertak 
ing  to  improve  my  own  character  and  my  position  in 
the  world,  but  for  the  moment,  you  see,  I  wanted  this 
other  woman  to  be  in  my  arms.  She  had  worked 


THE      OTHER      WOMAN  37 

her  way  into  my  being,  On  all  sides  people  were 
saying  I  was  a  big  man  who  would  do  big  things,  and 
there  I  was.  That  evening  when  I  went  to  the  theatre 
I  walked  home  because  I  knew  I  would  be  unable  to 
sleep,  and  to  satisfy  the  annoying  impulse  in  myself  I 
went  and  stood  on  the  sidewalk  before  the  tobacco 
shop.  It  was  a  two  story  building,  and  I  knew  the 
woman  lived  upstairs  with  her  husband.  For  a  long 
time  I  stood  in  the  darkness  with  my  body  pressed 
against  the  wall  of  the  building,  and  then  I  thought  of 
the  two  of  them  up  there  and  no  doubt  in  bed  together. 
That  made  me  furious. 

"Then  I  grew  more  furious  with  myself.  I  went 
home  and  got  into  bed,  shaken  with  anger.  There  are 
certain  books  of  verse  and  some  prose  writings  that 
have  always  moved  me  deeply,  and  so  I  put  several 
books  on  a  table  by  my  bed. 

"The  voices  in  the  books  were  like  the  voices  of  the 
dead.  I  did  not  hear  them.  The  printed  words  would 
not  penetrate  into  my  consciousness.  I  tried  to  think 
of  the  woman  I  loved,  but  her  figure  had  also  become 
something  far  away,  something  with  which  I  for  the 
moment  seemed  to  have  nothing  to  do.  I  rolled  and 
tumbled  about  in  the  bed.  It  was  a  miserable  ex 
perience. 

"On  Thursday  morning  I  went  into  the  store.  There 
stood  the  woman  alone.  I  think  she  knew  how  I  felt. 
Perhaps  she  had  been  thinking  of  me  as  I  had  been 


38         THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

thinking  of  her.  A  doubtful  hesitating  smile  played 
about  the  corners  of  her  mouth.  She  had  on  a  dress 
made  of  cheap  cloth  and  there  was  a  tear  on  the 
shoulder.  She  must  have  been  ten  years  older  than 
myself.  When  I  tried  to  put  my  pennies  on  the  glass 
counter,  behind  which  she  stood,  my  hand  trembled 
so  that  the  pennies  made  a  sharp  rattling  noise.  When 
I  spoke  the  voice  that  came  out  of  my  throat  did  not 
sound  like  anything  that  had  ever  belonged  to  me. 
It  barely  arose  above  a  thick  whisper.  'I  want  you,'  I 
said.  *I  want  you  very  much.  Can't  you  run  away 
from  your  husband?  Come  to  me  at  my  apartment 
at  seven  tonight.' 

"The  woman  did  come  to  my  apartment  at  seven. 
That  morning  she  didn't  say  anything  at  all.  For  a 
minute  perhaps  we  stood  looking  at  each  other.  I 
had  forgotten  everything  in  the  world  but  just  her. 
Then  she  nodded  her  head  and  I  went  away.  Now 
that  I  think  of  it  I  cannot  remember  a  word  I  ever 
heard  her  say.  She  came  to  my  apartment  at  seven 
and  it  was  dark.  You  must  understand  this  was  in 
the  month  of  October.  I  had  not  lighted  a  light  and 
I  had  sent  my  servant  away. 

"During  that  day  I  was  no  good  at  all.  Several 
men  came  to  see  me  at  my  office,  but  I  got  all  muddled 
up  in  trying  to  talk  with  them.  They  attributed  my 
rattle-headedness  to  my  approaching  marriage  and 
went  away  laughing. 


THE      OTHER      WOMAN  39 

"It  was  on  that  morning,  just  the  day  before  my 
marriage,  that  I  got  a  long  and  very  beautiful  letter 
from  my  fiancee.  During  the  night  before  she  also 
had  been  unable  to  sleep  and  had  got  out  of  bed  to 
write  the  letter.  Everything  she  said  in  it  was  very 
sharp  and  real,  but  she  herself,  as  a  living  thing, 
seemed  to  have  receded  into  the  distance.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  she  was  like  a  bird,  flying  far  away  in  dis 
tant  skies,  and  that  I  was  like  a  perplexed  bare-footed 
boy  standing  in  the  dusty  road  before  a  farm  house  and 
looking  at  her  receding  figure.  I  wonder  if  you  will 
understand  what  I  mean? 

"In  regard  to  the  letter.  In  it  she,  the  awakening 
woman,  poured  out  her  heart.  She  of  course  knew 
nothing  of  life,  but  she  was  a  woman.  She  lay,  I  sup 
pose,  in  her  bed  feeling  nervous  and  wrought  up  as 
I  had  been  doing.  She  realized  that  a  great  change 
was  about  to  take  place  in  her  life  and  was  glad  and 
afraid  too.  There  she  lay  thinking  of  it  all.  Then 
she  got  out  of  bed  and  began  talking  to  me  on  the 
bit  of  paper.  She  told  me  how  afraid  she  was  and 
how  glad  too.  Like  most  young  women  she  had  heard 
things  whispered.  In  the  letter  she  was  very  sweet 
and  fine.  'For  a  long  time,  after  we  are  married,  we 
will  forget  we  are  a  man  and  woman,'  she  wrote.  'We 
will  be  human  beings.  You  must  remember  that  I 
am  ignorant  and  often  I  will  be  very  stupid.  You  must 
love  me  and  be  very  patient  and  kind.  When  I  know 


40         THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

more,  when  after  a  long  time  you  have  taught  me  the 
way  of  life,  I  will  try  to  repay  you.  I  will  love  you 
tenderly  and  passionately.  The  possibility  of  that  is 
in  me  or  I  would  not  want  to  marry  at  all.  I  am 
afraid  but  I  am  also  happy.  O,  I  am  so  glad  our 
marriage  time  is  near  at  hand!' 

"Now  you  see  clearly  enough  what  a  mess  I  was 
in.  In  my  office,  after  I  had  read  my  fiancee's  letter,  I 
became  at  once  very  resolute  and  strong.  I  remember 
that  I  got  out  of  my  chair  and  walked  about,  proud 
of  the  fact  that  I  was  to  be  the  husband  of  so  noble 
a  woman.  Right  away  I  felt  concerning  her  as  I  had 
been  feeling  about  myself  before  I  found  out  what  a 
weak  thing  I  was.  To  be  sure  I  took  a  strong  resolu 
tion  that  I  would  not  be  weak.  At  nine  that  evening 
I  had  planned  to  run  in  to  see  my  fiancee.  Tm  all 
right  now',  I  said  to  myself.  'The  beauty  of  her 
character  has  saved  me  from  myself.  I  will  go  home 
now  and  send  the  other  woman  away.'  In  the  morn 
ing  I  had  telephoned  to  my  servant  and  told  him  that 
I  did  not  want  him  to  be  at  the  apartment  that  even 
ing  and  I  now  picked  up  the  telephone  to  tell  him  to 
stay  at  home. 

"Then  a  thought  came  to  me.  *I  will  not  want  him 
there  in  any  event,'  I  told  myself.  'What  will  he 
think  when  he  sees  a  woman  coming  in  my  place  on  the 
evening  before  the  day  I  am  to  be  married?'  I  put 
the  telephone  down  and  prepared  to  go  home,*  'If  I 


THE      OTHER      WOMAN  4! 

want  my  servant  out  of  the  apartment  it  is  because  I 
do  not  want  him  to  hear  me  talk  with  the  woman.  I 
cannot  be  rude  to  her.  I  will  have  to  make  some  kind 
of  an  explanation/  I  said  to  myself. 

"The  woman  came  at  seven  o'clock,  and,  as  you  may 
have  guessed,  I  let  her  in  and  forgot  the  resolution  I 
had  made.  It  is  likely  I  never  had  any  intention  of 
doing  anything  else.  There  was  a  bell  on  my  door,  but 
she  did  not  ring,  but  knocked  very  softly.  It  seems  to 
me  that  everything  she  did  that  evening  was  soft  and 
quiet,  but  very  determined  and  quick.  Do  I  make  my 
self  clear?  When  she  came  I  was  standing  just  within 
the  door  where  I  had  been  standing  and  waiting  for 
a  half  hour.  My  hands  were  trembling  as  they  had 
trembled  in  the  morning  when  her  eyes  looked  at  me 
and  when  I  tried  to  put  the  pennies  on  the  counter  in 
the  store.  When  I  opened  the  door  she  stepped 
quickly  in  and  I  took  her  into  my  arms.  We  stood 
together  in  the  darkness.  My  hands  no  longer 
trembled.  I  felt  very  happy  and  strong. 

"Although  I  have  tried  to  make  everything  clear  I 
have  not  told  you  what  the  woman  I  married  is  like. 
I  have  emphasized,  you  see,  the  other  woman.  I  make 
the  blind  statement  that  I  love  my  wife,  and  to  a  man 
of  your  shrewdness  that  means  nothing  at  all.  To  tell 
the  truth,  had  I  not  started  to  speak  of  this  matter  I 
would  feel  more  comfortable.  It  is  inevitable  that  I 
give  you  the  impression  that  I  am  in  love  with  the 


42         THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

tobacconist's  wife.  That's  not  true.  To  be  sure  I 
was  very  conscious  of  her  all  during  the  week  before 
my  marriage,  but  after  she  had  come  to  me  at  my 
apartment  she  went  entirely  out  of  my  mind. 

"Am  I  telling  the  truth?  I  am  trying  very  hard  to 
tell  what  happened  to  me.  I  am  saying  that  I  have 
not  since  that  evening  thought  of  the  woman  who 
came  to  my  apartment.  Now,  to  tell  the  facts  of  the 
case,  that  is  not  true.  On  that  evening  I  went  to  my 
fiancee  at  nine,  as  she  had  asked  me  to  do  in  her 
letter.  In  a  kind  of  way  I  cannot  explain  the  other 
woman  went  with  me.  This  is  what  I  mean — you  see 
I  had  been  thinking  that  if  anything  happened  between 
me  and  the  tobacconist's  wife  I  would  not  be  able  to 
go  through  with  my  marriage.  'It  is  one  thing  or  the 
other  with  me,'  I  had  said  to  myself. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact  I  went  to  see  my  beloved  on 
that  evening  filled  with  a  new  faith  in  the  outcome  of 
our  life  together.  I  am  afraid  I  muddle  this  matter 
in  trying  to  tell  it.  A  moment  ago  I  said  the  other 
woman,  the  tobacconist's  wife,  went  with  me.  I  do 
not  mean  she  went  in  fact.  What  I  am  trying  to  say 
is  that  something  of  her  faith  in  her  own  desires  and 
her  courage  in  seeing  things  through  went  with  me. 
Is  that  clear  to  you  ?  When  I  got  to  my  fiancee's  house 
there  was  a  crowd  of  people  standing  about.  Some 
were  relatives  from  distant  places  I  had  not  seejn  be 
fore.  She  looked  up  quickly  when  I  came  into  the 


THE      OTHER      WOMAN  '42 

room.  My  face  must  have  been  radiant.  I  never  saw 
her  so  moved.  She  thought  her  letter  had  affected  me 
deeply,  and  of  course  it  had.  Up  she  jumped  and  ran 
to  meet  me.  She  was  like  a  glad  child.  Right  before 
the  people  who  turned  and  looked  inquiringly  at  us,  she 
said  the  thing  that  was  in  her  mind.  'O,  I  am  so 
happy/  she  cried.  'You  have  understood.  We  will 
be  two  human  beings.  We  will  not  have  to  be  husband 
and  wife.' 

"As  you  may  suppose  everyone  laughed,  but  I  did 
not  laugh.  The  tears  came  into  my  eyes.  I  was  so 
happy  I  wanted  to  shout.  Perhaps  you  understand 
what  I  mean.  In  the  office  that  day  when  I  read  the 
letter  my  fiancee  had  written  I  had  said  to  myself, 
'I  will  take  care  of  the  dear  little  woman.'  There  was 
something  smug,  you  see,  about  that.  In  her  house 
when  she  cried  out  in  that  way,  and  when  everyone 
laughed,  what  I  said  to  myself  was  something  like 
this:  'We  will  take  care  of  ourselves.'  I  whispered 
something  of  the  sort  into  her  ears.  To  tell  you  the 
truth  I  had  come  down  off  my  perch.  The  spirit  of 
the  other  woman  did  that  to  me.  Before  all  the 
people  gathered  about  I  held  my  fiancee  close  and  we 
kissed.  They  thought  it  very  sweet  of  us  to  be  so 
affected  at  the  sight  of  each  other.  What  they  would 
have  thought  had  they  known  the  truth  about  me  God 
only  knows  I 

"Twice  now  I  have  said  that  after  that  evening  I 


44         THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

never  thought  of  the  other  woman  at  all.  That  is 
partially  true  but,  sometimes  in  the  evening  when  I 
am  walking  alone  in  the  street  or  in  the  park  as  we  are 
walking  now,  and  when  evening  comes  softly  and 
quickly  as  it  has  come  to-night,  the  feeling  of  her  comes 
sharply  into  my  body  and  mind.  After  that  one  meet 
ing  I  never  saw  her  again.  On  the  next  day  I  was 
married  and  I  have  never  gone  back  into  her  street. 
Often  however  as  I  am  walking  along  as  I  am  doing 
now,  a  quick  sharp  earthy  feeling  takes  possession  of 
me.  It  is  as  though  I  were  a  seed  in  the  ground  and 
the  warm  rains  of  the  spring  had  come.  It  is  as  though 
I  were  not  a  man  but  a  tree. 

"And  now  you  see  I  am  married  and  everything  is 
all  right.  My  marriage  is  to  me  a  very  beautiful 
fact.  If  you  were  to  say  that  my  marriage  is  not  a 
happy  one  I  could  call  you  a  liar  and  be  speaking  the 
absolute  truth.  I  have  tried  to  tell  you  about  this 
other  woman.  There  is  a  kind  of  relief  in  speaking 
of  her.  I  have  never  done  it  before.  I  wonder  why 
I  was  so  silly  as  to  be  afraid  that  I  would  give  you 
the  impression  I  am  not  in  love  with  my  wife.  If  I 
did  not  instinctively  trust  your  understanding  I  would 
not  have  spoken.  As  the  matter  stands  I  have  a  little 
stirred  myself  up.  To-night  I  shall  think  of  the  other 
woman.  That  sometimes  occurs.  It  will  happen  after 
I  have  gone  to  bed.  My  wife  sleeps  in  the  next  room 
to  mine  and  the  door  is  always  left  open.  There  will 


THE      OTHER      WOMAN  45 

be  a  moon  to-night,  and  when  there  is  a  moon  long 
streaks  of  light  fall  on  her  bed.  I  shall  awake  at 
midnight  to-night.  She  will  be  lying  asleep  with  one 
arm  thrown  over  her  head. 

"What  is  it  that  I  am  now  talking  about?  A  man 
does  not  speak  of  his  wife  lying  in  bed.  What  I  am 
trying  to  say  is  that,  because  of  this  talk,  I  shall  think 
of  the  other  woman  to-night.  My  thoughts  will  not 
take  the  form  they  did  during  the  week  before  I  was 
married.  I  will  wonder  what  has  become  of  the 
woman.  For  a  moment  I  will  again  feel  myself  hold 
ing  her  close.  I  will  think  that  for  an  hour  I  was 
closer  to  her  than  I  have  ever  been  to  anyone  else. 
Then  I  will  think  of  the  time  when  I  will  be  as  close 
as  that  to  my  wife.  She  is  still,  you  see,  an  awakening 
woman.  For  a  moment  I  will  close  my  eyes  and  the 
quick,  shrewd,  determined  eyes  of  that  other  woman 
will  look  into  mine.  My  head  will  swim  and  then  I 
will  quickly  open  my  eyes  and  see  again  the  dear 
woman  with  whom  I  have  undertaken  to  live  out  my 
life.  Then  I  will  sleep  and  when  I  awake  in  the 
morning  it  will  be  as  it  was  that  evening  when  I  walked 
out  of  my  dark  apartment  after  having  had  the  most 
notable  experience  of  my  life.  What  I  mean  to  say, 
you  understand  is  that,  for  me,  when  I  awake,  the 
other  woman  will  be  utterly  gone." 


THE  EGG 

Y  FATHER  was,  I  am  sure,  intended  by  nature 
to  be  a  cheerful,  kindly  man.  Until  he  was 
thirty-four  years  old  he  worked  as  a  farm-hand  for  a 
man  named  Thomas  Butterworth  whose  place  lay  near 
the  town  of  Bidwell,  Ohio.  He  had  then  a  horse  of  his 
own  and  on  Saturday  evenings  drove  into  town  to 
spend  a  few  hours  in  social  intercourse  with  other 
farm-hands.  In  town  he  drank  several  glasses  of  beer 
and  stood  about  in  Ben  Head's  saloon—- crowded  on 
Saturday  evenings  with  visiting  farm-hands.  Songs 
were  sung  and  glasses  thumped  on  the  bar.  At  ten 
o'clock  father  drove  home  along  a  lonely  country  road, 
made  his  horse  comfortable  for  the  night  and  himself 
went  to  bed,  quite  happy  in  his  position  in  life.  He 
had  at  that  time  no  notion  of  trying  to  rise  in  the 
world. 

It  was  in  the  spring  of  his  thirty-fifth  year  that 
father  married  my  mother,  then  a  country  school 
teacher,  and  in  the  following  spring  I  came  wriggling 
and  crying  into  the  world.  Something  happened  to 
the  two  people.  They  became  ambitious.  The  Ameri 
can  passion  for  getting  up  in  the  world  took  possession 
of  them. 

46 


T  H  E     E  G  G  47 

It  may  have  been  that  mother  was  responsible.  Be 
ing  a  school-teacher  she  had  no  doubt  read  books  and 
magazines.  She  had,  I  presume,  read  of  how  Garfield, 
Lincoln,  and  other  Americans  rose  from  poverty  to 
fame  and  greatness  and  as  I  lay  beside  her — in  the 
days  of  her  lying-in — she  may  have  dreamed  that  I 
would  some  day  rule  men  and  cities.  At  any  rate  she 
induced  father  to  give  up  his  place  as  a  farm-hand, 
sell  his  horse  and  embark  on  an  independent  enterprise 
of  his  own.  She  was  a  tall  silent  woman  with  a  long 
nose  and  troubled  grey  eyes.  For  herself  she  wanted 
nothing.  For  father  and  myself  she  was  incurably 
ambitious. 

The  first  venture  into  which  the  two  people  went 
turned  out  badly.  They  rented  ten  acres  of  poor  stony 
land  on  Griggs's  Road,  eight  miles  from  Bidwell,  and 
launched  into  chicken  raising.  I  grew  into  boyhood  on 
the  place  and  got  my  first  impressions  of  life  there. 
From  the  beginning  they  were  impressions  of  disaster 
and  if,  in  my  turn,  I  am  a  gloomy  man  inclined  to  see 
the  darker  side  of  life,  I  attribute  it  to  the  fact  that 
what  should  have  been  for  me  the  happy  joyous  days 
of  childhood  were  spent  on  a  chicken  farm. 

One  unversed  in  such  matters  can  have  no  notion  of 
the  many  and  tragic  things  that  can  happen  to  a 
chicken.  It  is  born  out  of  an  egg,  lives  for  a  few  weeks 
as  a  tiny  fluffy  thing  such  as  you  will  see  pictured  on 
Easter  cards,  then  becomes  hideously  naked,  eats  quan- 


48         THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

titles  of  corn  and  meal  bought  by  the  sweat  of  your 
father's  brow,  gets  diseases  called  pip,  cholera,  and 
other  names,  stands  looking  with  stupid  eyes  at  the 
sun,  becomes  sick  and  dies.  A  few  hens  and  now  and 
then  a  rooster,  intended  to  serve  God's  mysterious 
ends,  struggle  through  to  maturity.  The  hens  lay  eggs 
out  of  which  come  other  chickens  and  the  dreadful 
cycle  is  thus  made  complete.  It  is  all  unbelievably 
complex.  Most  philosophers  must  have  been  raised  on 
chicken  farms.  One  hopes  for  so  much  from  a  chicken 
and  is  so  dreadfully  disillusioned.  Small  chickens, 
just  setting  out  on  the  journey  of  life,  look  so  bright 
and  alert  and  they  are  in  fact  so  dreadfully  stupid. 
They  are  so  much  like  people  they  mix  one  up  in  one's 
judgments  of  life.  If  disease  does  not  kill  them  they 
wait  until  your  expectations  are  thoroughly  aroused 
and  then  walk  under  the  wheels  of  a  wagon — to  go 
squashed  and  dead  back  to  their  maker.  Vermin  in 
fest  their  youth,  and  fortunes  must  be  spent  for  cura 
tive  powders.  In  later  life  I  have  seen  how  a  literature 
has  been  built  up  on  the  subject  of  fortunes  to  be  made 
out  of  the  raising  of  chickens.  It  is  intended  to  be 
read  by  the  gods  who  have  just  eaten  of  the  tree  of 
the  knowledge  of  good  and  evil.  It  is  a  hopeful  litera 
ture  and  declares  that  much  may  be  done  by  simple 
ambitious  people  who  own  a  few  hens.  Do  not  be  led 
astray  by  it.  It  was  not  written  for  you.  Go  hunt  for 
gold  on  the  frozen  hills  of  Alaska,  put  your  faith  in 


T  H  E     E  G  G  49 

the  honesty  of  a  politician,  believe  if  you  will  that  the 
world  is  daily  growing  better  and  that  good  will  tri 
umph  over  evil,  but  do  not  read  and  believe  the  litera 
ture  that  is  written  concerning  the  hen.  It  was  not 
written  for  you. 

I,  however,  digress.  My  tale  does  not  primarily  con 
cern  itself  with  the  hen.  If  correctly  told  it  will  centre 
on  the  egg.  For  ten  years  my  father  and  mother  strug 
gled  to  make  our  chicken  farm  pay  and  then  they  gave 
up  that  struggle  and  began  another.  They  moved  into 
the  town  of  Bidwell,  Ohio  and  embarked  in  the  res 
taurant  business.  After  ten  years  of  worry  with  in 
cubators  that  did  not  hatch,  and  with  tiny — and  in 
their  own  way  lovely — balls  of  fluff  that  passed  on  into 
semi-naked  pullethood  and  from  that  into  dead  hen- 
hood,  we  threw  all  aside  and  packing  our  belongings 
on  a  wagon  drove  down  Griggs's  Road  toward  Bid- 
well,  a  tiny  caravan  of  hope  looking  for  a  new  place 
from  which  to  start  on  our  upward  journey  through 
life. 

We  must  have  been  a  sad  looking  lot,  not,  I  fancy, 
unlike  refugees  fleeing  from  a  battlefield.  Mother  and 
I  walked  in  the  road.  The  wagon  that  contained  our 
goods  had  been  borrowed  for  the  day  from  Mr.  Albert 
Griggs,  a  neighbor.  Out  of  its  sides  stuck  the  legs  of 
cheap  chairs  and  at  the  back  of  the  pile  of  beds,  tables, 
and  boxes  filled  with  kitchen  utensils  was  a  crate  of 
live  chickens,  and  on  top  of  that  the  baby  carriage  in 


50         THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

which  I  had  been  wheeled  about  in  my  infancy.  Why 
we  stuck  to  the  baby  carriage  I  don't  know.  It  was 
unlikely  other  children  would  be  born  and  the  wheels 
were  broken.  People  who  have  few  possessions  cling 
tightly  to  those  they  have.  That  is  one  of  the  facts 
that  make  life  so  discouraging. 

Father  rode  on  top  of  the  wagon.  He  was  then  a 
bald-headed  man  of  forty-five,  a  little  fat  and  from 
long  association  with  mother  and  the  chickens  he  had 
become  habitually  silent  and  discouraged.  All  during 
our  ten  years  on  the  chicken  farm  he  had  worked  as  a 
laborer  on  neighboring  farms  and  most  of  the  money 
he  had  earned  had  been  spent  for  remedies  to  cure 
chicken  diseases,  on  Wilmer's  White  Wonder  Cholera 
Cure  or  Professor  Bidlow's  Egg  Producer  or  some 
other  preparations  that  mother  found  advertised  in 
the  poultry  papers.  There  were  two  little  patches  of 
hair  on  father's  head  just  above  his  ears.  I  remember 
that  as  a  child  I  used  to  sit  looking  at  him  when  he  had 
gone  to  sleep  in  a  chair  before  the  stove  on  Sunday 
afternoons  in  the  winter.  I  had  at  that  time  already 
begun  to  read  books  and  have  notions  of  my  own  and 
the  bald  path  that  led  over  the  top  of  his  head  was,  I 
fancied,  something  like  a  broad  road,  such  a  road  as 
Caesar  might  have  made  on  which  to  lead  his  legions 
out  of  Rome  and  into  the  wonders  of  an  unknown 
world.  The  tufts  of  hair  that  grew  above  father's 
ears  were,  I  thought,  like  forests.  I  fell  into  a  half- 


TH  E     EGG  51 

sleeping,  half-waking  state  and  dreamed  I  was  a  tiny 
thing  going  along  the  road  into  a  far  beautiful  place 
where  there  were  no  chicken  farms  and  where  life  was 
a  happy  eggless  affair. 

One  might  write  a  book  concerning  our  flight  from 
the  chicken  farm  into  town.  Mother  and  I  walked  the 
entire  eight  miles — she  to  be  sure  that  nothing  fell 
from  the  wagon  and  I  to  see  the  wonders  of  the  world. 
On  the  seat  of  the  wagon  beside  father  was  his  greatest 
treasure.  I  will  tell  you  of  that. 

On  a  chicken  farm  where  hundreds  and  even  thou 
sands  of  chickens  come  out  of  eggs  surprising  things 
sometimes  happen.  Grotesques  are  born  out  of  eggs 
as  out  of  people.  The  accident  does  not  often  occur — 
perhaps  once  in  a  thousand  births.  A  chicken  is,  you 
see,  born  that  has  four  legs,  two  pairs  of  wings,  two 
heads  or  what  not.  The  things  do  not  live.  They  go 
quickly  back  to  the  hand  of  their  maker  that  has  for  a 
moment  trembled.  The  fact  that  the  poor  little  things 
could  not  live  was  one  of  the  tragedies  of  life  to 
father.  He  had  some  sort  of  notion  that  if  he  could 
but  bring  into  henhood  or  roosterhood  a  five-legged 
hen  or  a  two-headed  rooster  his  fortune  would  be 
made.  He  dreamed  of  taking  the  wonder  about  to 
county  fairs  and  of  growing  rich  by  exhibiting  it  to 
other  farm-hands. 

At  any  rate  he  saved  all  the  little  monstrous  things 
that  had  been  born  on  our  chicken  farm.  They  were 


52         THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

preserved  in  alcohol  and  put  each  in  its  own  glass 
bottle.  These  he  had  carefully  put  into  a  box  and  on 
our  journey  into  town  it  was  carried  on  the  wagon  seat 
beside  him.  He  drove  the  horses  with  one  hand  and 
with  the  other  clung  to  the  box.  When  we  got  to  our 
destination  the  box  was  taken  down  at  once  and  the 
bottles  removed.  All  during  our  days  as  keepers  of  a 
restaurant  in  the  town  of  Bidwell,  Ohio,  the  gro 
tesques  in  their  little  glass  bottles  sat  on  a  shelf  back 
of  the  counter.  Mother  sometimes  protested  but 
father  was  a  rock  on  the  subject  of  his  treasure.  The 
grotesques  were,  he  declared,  valuable.  People,  he 
said,  liked  to  look  at  strange  and  wonderful  things. 

Did  I  say  that  we  embarked  in  the  restaurant  busi 
ness  in  the  town  of  Bidwell,  Ohio?  I  exaggerated  a 
little.  The  town  itself  lay  at  the  foot  of  a  low  hill 
and  on  the  shore  of  a  small  river.  The  railroad  did 
not  run  through  the  town  and  the  station  was  a  mile 
away  to  the  north  at  a  place  called  Pickleville.  There 
had  been  a  cider  mill  and  pickle  factory  at  the  station, 
but  before  the  time  of  our  coming  they  had  both  gone 
out  of  business.  In  the  morning  and  in  the  evening 
busses  came  down  to  the  station  along  a  road  called 
Turner's  Pike  from  the  hotel  on  the  main  street  of 
Bidwell.  Our  going  to  the  out  of  the  way  place  to  em 
bark  in  the  restaurant  business  was  mother's  idea.  She 
talked  of  it  for  a  year  and  then  one  day  went  off  and 
rented  an  empty  store  building  opposite  the  railroad 


THE     EGG  53 

station.  It  was  her  idea  that  the  restaurant  would  be 
profitable.  Travelling  men,  she  said,  would  be  always 
waiting  around  to  take  trains  out  of  town  and  town 
people  would  come  to  the  station  to  await  incoming 
trains.  They  would  come  to  the  restaurant  to  buy 
pieces  of  pie  and  drink  coffee.  Now  that  I  am  older 
I  know  that  she  had  another  motive  in  going.  She 
was  ambitious  for  me.  She  wanted  me  to  rise  in  the 
world,  to  get  into  a  towi|  school  and  become  a  man  of 
the  towns. 

At  Pickleville  father  and  mother  worked  hard  as 
they  always  had  done.  At  first  there  was  the  necessity 
of  putting  our  place  into  shape  to  be  a  restaurant. 
That  took  a  month.  Father  built  a  shelf  on  which  he 
put  tins  of  vegetables.  He  painted  a  sign  on  which  he 
put  his  name  in  large  red  letters.  Below  his  name  was 
the  sharp  command — "EAT  HERE" — that  was  so  sel 
dom  obeyed.  A  show  case  was  bought  and  filled  with 
cigars  and  tobacco.  Mother  scrubbed  the  floor  and  the 
walls  of  the  room.  I  went  to  school  in  the  town  and 
was  glad  to  be  away  from  the  farm  and  from  the 
presence  of  the  discouraged,  sad-looking  chickens. 
Still  I  was  not  very  joyous.  In  the  evening  I  walked 
home  from  school  along  Turner's  Pike  and  remem 
bered  the  children  I  had  seen  playing  in  the  town  school 
yard.  A  troop  of  little  girls  had  gone  hopping  about 
and  singing.  I  tried  that.  Down  along  the  frozen 
road  I  went  hopping  solemnly  on  one  leg.  "Hippity 


54        THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

Hop  To  The  Barber  Shop,"  I  sang  shrilly.  Then  I 
stopped  and  looked  doubtfully  about.  I  was  afraid  of 
being  seen  in  my  gay  mood.  It  must  have  seemed  to 
me  that  I  was  doing  a  thing  that  should  not  be  done 
by  one  who,  like  myself,  had  been  raised  on  a  chicken 
farm  where  death  was  a  daily  visitor. 

Mother  decided  that  our  restaurant  should  remain 
open  at  night.  At  ten  in  the  evening  a  passenger 
train  went  north  past  our  door  followed  by  a  local 
freight.  The  freight  crew  had  switching  to  do  in 
Pickleville  and  when  the  work  was  done  they  came 
to  our  restaurant  for  hot  coffee  and  food.  Some 
times  one  of  them  ordered  a  fried  egg.  In  the  morn 
ing  at  four  they  returned  north-bound  and  again 
visited  us.  A  little  trade  began  to  grow  up. 
Mother  slept  at  night  and  during  the  day  tended  the 
restaurant  and  fed  our  boarders  while  father  slept. 
He  slept  in  the  same  bed  mother  had  occupied  dur 
ing  the  night  and  I  went  off  to  the  town  of  Bidwell 
and  to  school.  During  the  long  nights,  while  mother 
and  I  slept,  father  cooked  meats  that  were  to  go  into 
sandwiches  for  the  lunch  baskets  of  our  boarders. 
Then  an  idea  in  regard  to  getting  up  in  the  world  came 
into  his  head.  The  American  spirit  took  hold  of  him. 
He  also  became  ambitious. 

In  the  long  nights  when  there  was  little  to  do  father 
had  time  to  think.  That  was  his  undoing.  He  de 
cided  that  he  had  in  the  past  been  an  unsuccessful  man 


T  H  E     E  GG  55 

because  he  had  not  been  cheerful  enough  and  that  in 
the  future  he  would  adopt  a  cheerful  outlook  on  life. 
In  the  early  morning  he  came  upstairs  and  got  into 
bed  with  mother.  She  woke  and  the  two  talked. 
From  my  bed  in  the  corner  I  listened. 

It  was  father's  idea  that  both  he  and  mother  should 
try  to  entertain  the  people  who  came  to  eat  at  our 
restaurant.  I  cannot  now  remember  his  words,  but 
he  gave  the  impression  of  one  about  to  become  in 
some  obscure  way  a  kind  of  public  entertainer.  When 
people,  particularly  young  people  from  the  town  of 
Bidwell,  came  into  our  place,  as  on  very  rare  oc 
casions  they  did,  bright  entertaining  conversation  was 
to  be  made.  From  father's  words  I  gathered  that 
something  of  the  jolly  inn-keeper  effect  was  to  be 
sought.  Mother  must  have  been  doubtful  from  the 
first,  but  she  said  nothing  discouraging.  It  was  father's 
notion  that  a  passion  for  the  company  of  himself 
and  mother  would  spring  up  in  the  breasts  of  the 
younger  people  of  the  town  of  Bidwell.  In  the  even 
ing  bright  happy  groups  would  come  singing  down 
Turner's  Pike.  They  would  troop  shouting  with  joy 
and  laughter  into  our  place.  There  would  be  song 
and  festivity.  I  do  not  mean  to  give  the  impression 
that  father  spoke  so  elaborately  of  the  matter.  He 
was  as  I  have  said  an  uncommunicative  man.  "They 
want  some  place  to  go.  I  tell  you  they  want  some  place 
to  go,"  he  said  over  and  over.  That  was  as  far  as  he 


56         THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

got.    My  own  imagination  has  filled  in  the  blanks. 

For  two  or  three  weeks  this  notion  of  father's  in 
vaded  our  house.  We  did  not  talk  much,  but  in  our 
daily  lives  tried  earnestly  to  make  smiles  take  the 
place  of  glum  looks.  Mother  smiled  at  the  boarders 
and  I,  catching  the  infection,  smiled  at  our  cat.  Father 
became  a  little  feverish  in  his  anxiety  to  please.  There 
was  no  doubt,  lurking  somewhere  in  him,  a  touch  of 
the  spirit  of  the  showman.  He  did  not  waste  much  of 
his  ammunition  on  the  railroad  men  he  served  at  night 
but  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  a  young  man  or  woman 
from  Bidwell  to  come  in  to  show  what  he  could  do. 
On  the  counter  in  the  restaurant  there  was  a  wire 
basket  kept  always  filled  with  eggs,  and  it  must  have 
been  before  his  eyes  when  the  idea  of  being  enter 
taining  was  born  in  his  brain.  There  was  something 
pre-natal  about  the  way  eggs  kept  themselves  con 
nected  with  the  development  of  his  idea.  At  any  rate 
an  egg  ruined  his  new  impulse  in  life.  Late  one  night  I 
was  awakened  by  a  roar  of  anger  coming  from  father's 
throat.  Both  mother  and  I  sat  upright  in  our  beds. 
With  trembling  hands  she  lighted  a  lamp  that  stood 
on  a  table  by  her  head.  Downstairs  the  front  door 
of  our  restaurant  went  shut  with  a  bang  and  in  a  few 
minutes  father  tramped  up  the  stairs.  He  held  an 
egg  in  his  hand  and  his  hand  trembled  as  though  he 
were  having  a  chill.  There  was  a  half  insane  light  in 
his  eyes.  As  he  stood  glaring  at  us  I  was  sure  he 


T  HE     EGG  57 

intended  throwing  the  egg  at  either  mother  or  me. 
Then  he  laid  it  gently  on  the  table  beside  the  lamp 
and  dropped  on  his  knees  beside  mother's  bed.  He 
began  to  cry  like  a  boy  and  I,  carried  away  by  his 
grief,  cried  with  him.  The  two  of  us  filled  the  little 
upstairs  room  with  our  wailing  voices.  It  is  ridiculous, 
but  of  the  picture  we  made  I  can  remember  only  the 
fact  that  mother's  hand  continually  stroked  the  bald 
path  that  ran  across  the  top  of  his  head.  I  have  for 
gotten  what  mother  said  to  him  and  how  she  in 
duced  him  to  tell  her  of  what  had  happened  down 
stairs.  His  explanation  also  has  gone  out  of  my 
mind.  I  remember  only  my  own  grief  and  fright  and 
the  shiny  path  over  father's  head  glowing  in  the  lamp 
light  as  he  knelt  by  the  bed. 

As  to  what  happened  downstairs.  For  some  unex- 
plainable  reason  I  know  the  story  as  well  as  though 
I  had  been  a  witness  to  my  father's  discomfiture.  One 
in  time  gets  to  know  many  unexplainable  things.  On 
that  evening  young  Joe  Kane,  son  of  a  merchant  of 
Bidwell,  came  to  Pickleville  to  meet  his  father,  who 
was  expected  on  the  ten  o'clock  evening  train  from  the 
South.  The  train  was  three  hours  late  and  Joe  came 
into  our  place  to  loaf  about  and  to  wait  for  its  arrival. 
The  local  freight  train  came  in  and  the  freight  crew 
were  fed.  Joe  was  left  alone  in  the  restaurant  with 
father. 

From  the  moment  he  came  into  our  place  the  Bid- 


58         THE      TRIUMPH      OF     THE      EGG 

well  young  man  must  have  been  puzzled  by  my  father's 
actions.  It  was  his  notion  that  father  was  angry  at 
him  for  hanging  around.  He  noticed  that  the  restau 
rant  keeper  was  apparently  disturbed  by  his  presence 
and  he  thought  of  going  out.  However,  it  began  to 
rain  and  he  did  not  fancy  the  long  walk  to  town  and 
back.  He  bought  a  five-cent  cigar  and  ordered  a  cup 
of  coffee.  He  had  a  newspaper  in  his  pocket  and  took 
it  out  and  began  to  read.  "I'm  waiting  for  the  evening 
train.  It's  late,"  he  said  apologetically. 

For  a  long  time  father,  whom  Joe  Kane  had  never 
seen  before,  remained  silently  gazing  at  his  visitor. 
He  was  no  doubt  suffering  from  an  attack  of  stage 
fright.  As  so  often  happens  in  life  he  had  thought  so 
much  and  so  often  of  the  situation  that  now  confronted 
him  that  he  was  somewhat  nervous  in  its  presence. 

For  one  thing,  he  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  his 
hands.  He  thrust  one  of  them  nervously  over  the 
counter  and  shook  hands  with  Joe  Kane.  "How-de- 
do,"  he  said.  Joe  Kane  put  his  newspaper  down  and 
stared  at  him.  Father's  eye  lighted  on  the  basket  of 
eggs  that  sat  on  the  counter  and  he  began  to  talk. 
"Well,"  he  began  hesitatingly,  "well,  you  have  heard 
of  Christopher  Columbus,  eh?"  He  seemed  to  be 
angry.  "That  Christopher  Columbus  was  a  cheat," 
he  declared  emphatically.  "He  talked  of  making  an 
egg  stand  on  its  end.  He  talked,  he  did,  and  then  he 
went  and  broke  the  end  of  the  egg." 


T  H  E     EGG  59 

My  father  seemed  to  his  visitor  to  be  beside  himself 
at  the  duplicity  of  Christopher  Columbus.  He  mut 
tered  and  swore.  He  declared  it  was  wrong  to  teach 
children  that  Christopher  Columbus  was  a  great  man 
when,  after  all,  he  cheated  at  the  critical  moment.  He 
had  declared  he  would  make  an  egg  stand  on  end  and 
then  when  his  bluff  had  been  called  he  had  done  a 
trick.  Still  grumbling  at  Columbus,  father  took  an 
egg  from  the  basket  on  the  counter  and  began  to  walk 
up  and  down.  He  rolled  the  egg  between  the  palms 
of  his  hands.  He  smiled  genially.  He  began  to 
mumble  words  regarding  the  effect  to  be  produced  on 
an  egg  by  the  electricity  that  comes  out  of  the  human 
body.  He  declared  that  without  breaking  its  shell 
and  by  virtue  of  rolling  it  back  and  forth  in  his  hands 
he  could  stand  the  egg  on  its  end.  He  explained  that 
the  warmth  of  his  hands  and  the  gentle  rolling  move 
ment  he  gave  the  egg  created  a  new  centre  of  gravity, 
and  Joe  Kane  was  mildly  interested.  "I  have  handled 
thousands  of  eggs,"  father  said.  "No  one  knows  more 
about  eggs  than  I  do." 

He  stood  the  egg  on  the  counter  and  it  fell  on  its 
side.  He  tried  the  trick  again  and  again,  each  time 
rolling  the  egg  between  the  palms  of  his  hands  and 
saying  the  words  regarding  the  wonders  of  electricity 
and  the  laws  of  gravity.  When  after  a  half  hour's  ef 
fort  he  did  succeed  in  making  the  egg  stand  for  a 
moment  he  looked  up  to  find  that  his  visitor  was  no 


60         THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

longer  watching.  By  the  time  he  had  succeeded  in 
calling  Joe  Kane's  attention  to  the  success  of  his  effort 
the  egg  had  again  rolled  over  and  lay  on  its  side. 

Afire  with  the  showman's  passion  and  at  the  same 
time  a  good  deal  disconcerted  by  the  failure  of  his 
first  effort,  father  now  took  the  bottles  containing  the 
poultry  monstrosities  down  from  their  place  on  the 
shelf  and  began  to  show  them  to  his  visitor.  "How 
would  you  like  to  have  seven  legs  and  two  heads  like 
this  fellow?"  he  asked,  exhibiting  the  most  remarkable 
of  his  treasures,  A  cheerful  smile  played  over  his 
face.  He  reached  over  the  counter  and  tried  to  slap 
Joe  Kane  on  the  shoulder  as  he  had  seen  men  do  in 
Ben  Head's  saloon  when  he  was  a  young  farm-hand 
and  drove  to  town  on  Saturday  evenings.  His  visitor 
was  made  a  little  ill  by  the  sight  of  the  body  of  the 
terribly  deformed  bird  floating  in  the  alcohol  in  the 
bottle  and  got  up  to  go.  Coming  from  behind  the 
counter  father  took  hold  of  the  young  man's  arm  and 
led  him  back  to  his  seat.  He  grew  a  little  angry  and 
for  a  moment  had  to  turn  his  face  away  and  force  him 
self  to  smile.  Then  he  put  the  bottles  back  on  the 
shelf.  In  an  outburst  of  generosity  he  fairly  compelled 
Joe  Kane  to  have  a  fresh  cup  of  coffee  and  another 
cigar  at  his  expense.  Then  he  took  a  pan  and  filling 
it  with  vinegar,  taken  from  a  jug  that  sat  beneath 
the  counter,  he  declared  himself  about  to  do  a  new 
trick.  "I  will  heat  this  egg  in  this  pan  of  vinegar,"  he 


TH  E     EGG  6l 

said.  "Then  I  will  put  it  through  the  neck  of  a  bottle 
without  breaking  the  shell.  When  the  egg  is  inside 
the  bottle  it  will  resume  its  normal  shape  and  the 
shell  will  become  hard  again.  Then  I  will  give  the 
bottle  with  the  egg  in  it  to  you.  You  can  take  it  about 
with  you  wherever  you  go.  People  will  want  to  know 
how  you  got  the  egg  in  the  bottle.  Don't  tell  them. 
Keep  them  guessing.  That  is  the  way  to  have  fun  with 
this  trick." 

Father  grinned  and  winked  at  his  visitor.  Joe  Kane 
decided  that  the  man  who  confronted  him  was  mildly 
insane  but  harmless.  He  drank  the  cup  of  coffee  that 
had  been  given  him  and  began  to  read  his  paper  again. 
When  the  egg  had  been  heated  in  vinegar  father  car 
ried  it  on  a  spoon  to  the  counter  and  going  into  a  back 
room  got  an  empty  bottle.  He  was  angry  because 
his  visitor  did  not  watch  him  as  he  began  to  do  his 
trick,  but  nevertheless  went  cheerfully  to  work.  For 
a  long  time  he  struggled,  trying  to  get  the  egg  to  go 
through  the  neck  of  the  bottle.  He  put  the  pan  of 
vinegar  back  on  the  stove,  intending  to  reheat  the  egg, 
then  picked  it  up  and  burned  his  fingers.  After  a 
second  bath  in  the  hot  vinegar  the  shell  of  the  egg 
had  been  softened  a  little  but  not  enough  for  his  pur 
pose.  He  worked  and  worked  and  a  spirit  of  des 
perate  determination  took  possession  of  him.  When 
he  thought  that  at  last  the  trick  was  about  to  be 
consummated  the  delayed  train  came  in  at  the  station 


62         THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

and  Joe  Kane  started  to  go  nonchalantly  out  at  the 
door.  Father  made  a  last  desperate  effort  to  conquer 
the  egg  and  make  it  do  the  thing  that  would  establish 
his  reputation  as  one  who  knew  how  to  entertain 
guests  who  came  into  his  restaurant.  He  worried  the 
egg.  He  attempted  to  be  somewhat  rough  with  it.  He 
swore  and  the  sweat  stood  out  on  his  forehead.  The 
egg  broke  under  his  hand.  When  the  contents  spurted 
over  his  clothes,  Joe  Kane,  who  had  stopped  at  the 
door,  turned  and  laughed. 

A  roar  of  anger  rose  from  my  father's  throat.  He 
danced  and  shouted  a  string  of  inarticulate  words. 
Grabbing  another  egg  from  the  basket  on  the  counter, 
he  threw  it,  just  missing  the  head  of  the  young  man  as 
he  dodged  through  the  door  and  escaped. 

Father  came  upstairs  to  mother  and  me  with  an 
egg  in  his  hand.  I  do  not  know  what  he  intended  to 
do.  I  imagine  he  had  some  idea  of  destroying  it,  of 
destroying  all  eggs,  and  that  he  intended  to  let  mother 
and  me  see  him  begin.  When,  however,  he  got  into 
the  presence  of  mother  something  happened  to  him. 
He  laid  the  egg  gently  on  the  table  and  dropped  on 
his  knees  by  the  bed  as  I  have  already  explained.  He 
later  decided  to  close  the  restaurant  for  the  night  and 
to  come  upstairs  and  get  into  bed.  When  he  did 
so  he  blew  out  the  light  and  after  much  muttered  con 
versation  both  he  and  mother  went  to  sleep.  I  sup 
pose  I  went  to  sleep  also,  but  my  sleep  was  troubled. 


T  H  E     E  G  G  63 

I  awoke  at  dawn  and  for  a  long  time  looked  at  the 
egg  that  lay  on  the  table.  I  wondered  why  eggs  had 
to  be  and  why  from  the  egg  came  the  hen  who  again 
laid  the  egg.  The  question  got  into  my  blood.  It  has 
stayed  there,  I  imagine,  because  I  am  the  son  of  my 
father.  At  any  rate,  the  problem  remains  unsolved  in 
my  mind.  And  that,  I  conclude,  is  but  another  evi 
dence  of  the  complete  and  final  triumph  of  the  egg — 
at  least  as  far  as  my  family  is  concerned. 


UNLIGHTED  LAMPS 

jl/TARY  COCHRAN  went  out  of  the  rooms  where 
she  lived  with  her  father,  Doctor  Lester  Coch- 
ran,  at  seven  o'clock  on  a  Sunday  evening.  It  was 
June  of  the  year  nineteen  hundred  and  eight  and  Mary 
was  eighteen  years  old.  She  walked  along  Tremont  to 
Main  Street  and  across  the  railroad  tracks  to  Upper 
Main,  lined  with  small  shops  and  shoddy  houses,  a 
rather  quiet  cheerless  place  on  Sundays  when  there 
were  few  people  about.  She  had  told  her  father 
she  was  going  to  church  but  did  not  intend  doing  any 
thing  of  the  kind.  She  did  not  know  what  she  wanted 
to  do.  "I'll  get  off  by  myself  and  think,"  she  told 
herself  as  she  walked  slowly  along.  The  night  she 
thought  promised  to  be  too  fine  to  be  spent  sitting  in 
a  stuffy  church  and  hearing  a  man  talk  of  things  that 
had  apparently  nothing  to  do  with  her  own  problem. 
Her  own  affairs  were  approaching  a  crisis  and  it  was 
time  for  her  to  begin  thinking  seriously  of  her  future. 
The  thoughtful  serious  state  of  mind  in  which  Mary 
found  herself  had  been  induced  in  her  by  a  conversa 
tion  had  with  her  father  on  the  evening  before.  With 
out  any  preliminary  talk  and  quite  suddenly  and  ab 
ruptly  he  had  told  her  that  he  was  a  victim  of  heart 


UNLIGHTED      LAMPS  65 

disease  and  might  die  at  any  moment.  He  had  made 
the  announcement  as  they  stood  together  in  the  Doc 
tor's  office,  back  of  which  were  the  rooms  in  which 
the  father  and  daughter  lived. 

It  was  growing  dark  outside  when  she  came  into  the 
office  and  found  him  sitting  alone.  The  office  and 
living  rooms  were  on  the  second  floor  of  an  old  frame 
building  in  the  town  of  Huntersburg,  Illinois,  and  as 
the  Doctor  talked  he  stood  beside  his  daughter  near 
one  of  the  windows  that  looked  down  into  Tremont 
Street.  The  hushed  murmur  of  the  town's  Saturday 
night  life  went  on  in  Main  Street  just  around  a  corner, 
and  the  evening  train,  bound  to  Chicago  fifty  miles 
to  the  east,  had  just  passed.  The  hotel  bus  came 
rattling  out  of  Lincoln  Street  and  went  through  Tre 
mont  toward  the  hotel  on  Lower  Main.  A  cloud  of 
dust  kicked  up  by  the  horses'  hoofs  floated  on  the  quiet 
air.  A  straggling  group  of  people  followed  the  bus 
and  the  row  of  hitching  posts  on  Tremont  Street  was 
already  lined  with  buggies  in  which  farmers  and  their 
wives  had  driven  into  town  for  the  evening  of  shop 
ping  and  gossip. 

After  the  station  bus  had  passed  three  or  four  more 
buggies  were  driven  into  the  street.  From  one  of 
them  a  young  man  helped  his  sweetheart  to  alight. 
He  took  hold  of  her  arm  with  a  certain  air  of  tender 
ness,  and  a  hunger  to  be  touched  thus  tenderly  by  a 
man's  hand,  that  had  come  to  Mary  many  times  before. 


66         THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

returned  at  almost  the  same  moment  her  father  made 
the  announcement  of  his  approaching  death. 

As  the  Doctor  began  to  speak  Barney  Smithfield, 
who  owned  a  livery  barn  that  opened  into  Tremont 
Street  directly  opposite  \the  building  in  which  the 
Cochrans  lived,  came  back  to  his  place  of  business  from 
his  evening  meal.  He  stopped  to  tell  a  story  to  a 
group  of  men  gathered  before  the  barn  door  and  a 
shout  of  laughter  arose.  One  of  the  loungers  in  the 
street,  a  strongly  built  young  man  in  a  checkered  suit, 
stepped  away  from  the  others  and  stood  before  the 
liveryman.  Having  seen  Mary  he  was  trying  to  at 
tract  her  attention.  He  also  began  to  tell  a  story  and 
as  he  talked  he  gesticulated,  waved  his  arms  and  from 
time  to  time  looked  over  his  shoulder  to  see  if  the 
girl  still  stood  by  the  window  and  if  she  were  watching. 

Doctor  Cochran  had  told  his  daughter  of  his  ap 
proaching  death  in  a  cold  quiet  voice.  To  the  girl  it 
had  seemed  that  everything  concerning  her  father  must 
be  cold  and  quiet.  "I  have  a  disease  of  the  heart,'* 
he  said  flatly,  "have  long  suspected  there  was  some 
thing  of  the  sort  the  matter  with  me  and  on  Thursday 
when  I  went  into  Chicago  I  had  myself  examined. 
The  truth  is  I  may  die  at  any  moment.  I  would  not 
tell  you  but  for  one  reason — I  will  leave  little  money 
and  you  must  be  making  plans  for  the  future." 

The  Doctor  stepped  nearer  the  window  where  his 
daughter  stood  with  her  hand  on  the  frame,  The 


UNLIGHTED     LAMPS  67 

announcement  had  made  her  a  little  pale  and  her 
hand  trembled.  In  spite  of  his  apparent  coldness  he 
was  touched  and  wanted  to  reassure  her.  "There 
now,"  he  said  hesitatingly,  "it'll  likely  be  all  right  after 
all.  Don't  worry.  I  haven't  been  a  doctor  for  thirty 
years  without  knowing  there's  a  great  deal  of  nonsense 
about  these  pronouncements  on  the  part  of  experts.  In 
a  matter  like  this,  that  is  to  say  when  a  man  has  a 
disease  of  the  heart,  he  may  putter  about  for  years." 
He  laughed  uncomfortably.  "I've  even  heard  it  said 
that  the  best  way  to  insure  a  long  life  is  to  contract 
a  disease  of  the  heart." 

With  these  words  the  Doctor  had  turned  and  waited 
out  of  his  office,  going  down  a  wooden  stairway  to  the 
street.  He  had  wanted  to  put  his  arm  about  his 
daughter's  shoulder  as  he  talked  to  her,  but  never 
having  shown  any  feeling  in  his  relations  with  her 
could  not  sufficiently  release  some  tight  thing  in  him 
self. 

Mary  had  stood  for  a  long  time  looking  down  into 
the  street.  The  young  man  in  the  checkered  suit,  whose 
name  was  Duke  Yetter,  had  finished  telling  his  tale  and 
a  shout  of  laughter  arose.  She  turned  to  look  toward 
the  door  through  which  her  father  had  passed  and 
dread  took  possession  of  her.  In  all  her  life  there 
had  never  been  anything  warm  and  close.  She  shiv 
ered  although  the  night  was  warm  and  with  a  quick 
girlish  gesture  passed  her  hand  over  her  eyes. 


68         THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

The  gesture  was  but  an  expression  of  a  desire  to 
brush  away  the  cloud  of  fear  that  had  settled  down 
upon  her  but  it  was  misinterpreted  by  Duke  Yetter 
who  now  stood  a  little  apart  from  the  other  men  be 
fore  the  livery  barn.  When  he  saw  Mary's  hand  go 
up  he  smiled  and  turning  quickly  to  be  sure  he  was 
unobserved  began  jerking  his  head  and  making  mo 
tions  with  his  hand  as  a  sign  that  he  wished  her  to 
come  down  into  the  street  where  he  would  have  an  op 
portunity  to  join  her. 

*       *       * 

On  the  Sunday  evening  Mary,  having  walked 
through  Upper  Main,  turned  into  Wilmott,  a  street 
of  workmens'  houses.  During  that  year  the  first  sign 
of  the  march  of  factories  westward  from  Chicago 
into  the  prairie  towns  had  come  to  Huntersburg.  A 
Chicago  manufacturer  of  furniture  had  built  a  plant 
in  the  sleepy  little  farming  town,  hoping  thus  to  escape 
the  labor  organizations  that  had  begun  to  give  him 
trouble  in  the  city.  At  the  upper  end  of  town,  in 
Wilmott,  Swift,  Harrison  and  Chestnut  Streets  and  in 
cheap,  badly-constructed  frame  houses,  most  of  the  fac 
tory  workers  lived.  On  the  warm  summer  evening  they 
were  gathered  on  the  porches  at  the  front  of  the  houses 
and  a  mob  of  children  played  in  the  dusty  streets.  Red- 
faced  men  in  white  shirts  and  without  collars  and 
coats  slept  in  chairs  or  lay  sprawled  on  strips  of  grass 
or  on  the  hard  earth  before  the  doors  of  the  houses. 


UNLIGHTED      LAMPS  69 

The  laborers1  wives  had  gathered  in  groups  and 
stood  gossiping  by  the  fences  that  separated  the  yards. 
Occasionally  the  voice  of  one  of  the  women  arose 
sharp  and  distinct  above  the  steady  flow  of  voices  that 
ran  like  a  murmuring  river  through  the  hot  little 
streets. 

In  the  roadway  two  children  had  got  into  a  fight. 
A  thick-shouldered  red-haired  boy  struck  another  boy 
who  had  a  pale  sharp-featured  face,  a  blow  on  the 
shoulder.  Other  children  came  running.  The  mother 
of  the  red-haired  boy  brought  the  promised  fight  to  an 
end.  "Stop  it  Johnny,  I  tell  you  to  stop  it.  I'll  break 
your  neck  if  you  don't,"  the  woman  screamed. 

The  pale  boy  turned  and  walked  away  from  his 
antagonist.  As  he  went  slinking  along  the  sidewalk 
past  Mary  Cochran  his  sharp  little  eyes,  burning  with 
hatred,  looked  up  at  her. 

Mary  went  quickly  along.  The  strange  new  part 
of  her  native  town  with  the  hubbub  of  life  always 
stirring  and  asserting  itself  had  a  strong  fascination 
for  her.  There  was  something  dark  and  resentful  in 
her  own  nature  that  made  her  feel  at  home  in  the 
crowded  place  where  life  carried  itself  off  darkly,  with 
a  blow  and  an  oath.  The  habitual  silence  of  her 
father  and  the  mystery  concerning  the  unhappy 
married  life  of  her  father  and  mother,  that  had  af 
fected  the  attitude  toward  her  of  the  people  of  the 
town,  had  made  her  own  life  a  lonely  one  and  had 


70         THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

encouraged  in  her  a  rather  dogged  determination  to 
in  some  way  think  her  own  way  through  the  things 
of  life  she  could  not  understand. 

And  back  of  Mary's  thinking  there  was  an  intense 
curiosity  and  a  courageous  determination  toward  ad 
venture.  She  was  like  a  little  animal  of  the  forest 
that  has  been  robbed  of  its  mother  by  the  gun  of  a 
sportsman  and  has  been  driven  by  hunger  to  go  forth 
and  seek  food.  Twenty  times  during  the  year  she  had 
walked  alone  at  evening  in  the  new  and  fast  growing 
factory  district  of  her  town.  She  was  eighteen  and  had 
begun  to  look  like  a  woman,  and  she  felt  that  other 
girls  of  the  town  of  her  own  age  would  not  have  dared 
to  walk  in  such  a  place  alone.  The  feeling  made  her 
somewhat  proud  and  as  she  went  along  she  looked 
boldly  about. 

Among  the  workers  in  Wilmott  Street,  men  and 
women  who  had  been  brought  to  town  by  the  furniture 
manufacturer,  were  many  who  spoke  in  foreign 
tongues.  Mary  walked  among  them  and  liked  the 
sound  of  the  strange  voices.  To  be  in  the  street 
made  her  feel  that  she  had  gone  out  of  her  town  and 
on  a  voyage  into  a  strange  land.  In  Lower  Main 
Street  or  in  the  residence  streets  in  the  eastern  part  of 
town  where  lived  the  young  men  and  women  she  had 
always  known  and  where  lived  also  the  merchants,  the 
clerks,  the  lawyers  and  the  more  well-to-do  American 
workmen  of  Huntersburg,  she  felt  always  a  secret  an- 


UNLIGHTED      LAMPS  ^l 

tagonism  to  herself.  The  antagonism  was  not  due  to 
anything  in  her  own  character.  She  was  sure  of  that. 
She  had  kept  so  much  to  herself  that  she  was  in  fact 
but  little  known.  "It  is  because  I  am  the  daughter  of 
my  mother/'  she  told  herself  and  did  not  walk  often 
in  the  part  of  town  where  other  girls  of  her  class  lived. 

Mary  had  been  so  often  in  Wilmott  Street  that 
many  of  the  people  had  begun  to  feel  acquainted  with 
her.  "She  is  the  daughter  of  some  farmer  and  has 
got  into  the  habit  of  walking  into  town,"  they  said. 
A  red-haired,  broad-hipped  woman  who  came  out  at 
the  front  door  of  one  of  the  houses  nodded  to  her. 
On  a  narrow  strip  of  grass  beside  another  house  sat 
a  young  man  with  his  back  against  a  tree.  He  was 
smoking  a  pipe,  but  when  he  looked  up  and  saw  her  he 
took  the  pipe  from  his  mouth.  She  decided  he  must  be 
an  Italian,  his  hair  and  eyes  were  so  black.  uNe 
bella !  si  f ai  un  onore  a  passare  di  qua,"  he  called  wav 
ing  his  hand  and  smiling. 

Mary  went  to  the  end  of  Wilmott  Street  and  came 
out  upon  a  country  road.  It  seemed  to  her  that  a 
long  time  must  have  passed  since  she  left  her  father's 
presence  although  the  walk  had  in  fact  occupied  but 
a  few  minutes.  By  the  side  of  the  road  and  on  top  of 
a  small  hill  there  was  a  ruined  barn,  and  before  the 
barn  a  great  hole  filled  with  the  charred  timbers  of 
what  had  once  been  a  farmhouse.  A  pile  of  stones 
lay  beside  the  hole  and  these  were  covered  with  creep- 


72         THE      TRIUMPH       OF      THE      EGG 

ing  vines.  Between  the  site  of  the  house  and  the  barn 
there  was  an  old  orchard  in  which  grew  a  mass  of 
tangled  weeds. 

Pushing  her  way  in  among  the  weeds,  many  of 
which  were  covered  with  blossoms,  Mary  found  herself 
a  seat  on  a  rock  that  had  been  rolled  against  the  trunk 
of  an  old  apple  tree.  The  weeds  half  concealed  her 
and  from  the  road  only  her  head  was  visible.  Buried 
away  thus  in  the  weeds  she  looked  like  a  quail  that 
runs  in  the  tall  grass  and  that  on  hearing  some  un 
usual  sound,  stops,  throws  up  its  head  and  looks 
sharply  about. 

The  doctor's  daughter  had  been  to  the  decayed  old 
orchard  many  times  before.  At  the  foot  of  the  hill  on 
which  it  stood  the  streets  of  the  town  began,  and  as 
she  sat  on  the  rock  she  could  hear  faint  shouts  and 
cries  coming  out  of  Wilmott  Street.  A  hedge  separated 
the  orchard  from  the  fields  on  the  hillside.  Mary  in 
tended  to  sit  by  the  tree  until  darkness  came  creep 
ing  over  the  land  and  to  try  to  think  out  some  plan 
regarding  her  future.  The  notion  that  her  father 
was  soon  to  die  seemed  both  true  and  untrue,  but  her 
mind  was  unable  to  take  hold  of  the  thought  of  him 
as  physically  dead.  For  the  moment  death  in  relation 
to  her  father  did  not  take  the  form  of  a  cold  inanimate 
body  that  was  to  be  buried  in  the  ground,  instead  it 
seemed  to  her  that  her  father  was  not  to  die  but  to  go 
away  somewhere  on  a  journey.  Long  ago  her  mother 


UNLIGHTED      LAMPS  73 

had  done  that.  There  was  a  strange  hesitating  sense 
of  relief  in  the  thought.  "Well,"  she  told  herself, 
uwhen  the  time  comes  I  also  shall  be  setting  out,  I 
shall  get  out  of  here  and  into  the  world."  On  several 
occasions  Mary  had  gone  to  spend  a  day  with  her 
father  in  Chicago  and  she  was*  fascinated  by  the 
thought  that  soon  she  might  be  going  there  to  live.  Be 
fore  her  mind's  eye  floated  a  vision  of  long  streets 
filled  with  thousands  of  people  all  strangers  to  her 
self.  To  go  into  such  streets  and  to  live  her  life 
among  strangers  would  be  like  coming  out  of  a  water 
less  desert  and  into  a  cool  forest  carpeted  with  tender 
young  grass. 

In  Huntersburg  she  had  always  lived  under  a  cloud 
and  now  she  was  becoming  a  woman  and  the  close 
stuffy  atmosphere  she  had  always  breathed  was  be 
coming  constantly  more  and  more  oppressive.  It  was 
true  no  direct  question  had  ever  been  raised  touching 
her  own  standing  in  the  community  life,  but  she  felt 
that  a  kind  of  prejudice  against  her  existed.  While 
she  was  still  a  baby  there  had  been  a  scandal  involving 
her  father  and  mother.  The  town  of  Huntersburg 
had  rocked  with  it  and  when  she  was  a  child  people 
had  sometimes  looked  at  her  with  mocking  sympa 
thetic  eyes.  "Poor  child!  It's  too  bad,"  they  said. 
Once,  on  a  cloudy  summer  evening  when  her  father 
had  driven  off  to  the  country  and  she  sat  alone  in  the 
darkness  by  his  office  window,  she  heard  a  man  and 


74        THE      TRIUMPH      OF     THE      EGG 

woman  in  the  street  mention  her  name.  The  couple 
stumbled  along  in  the  darkness  on  the  sidewalk  below 
the  office  window.  "That  daughter  of  Doc  Cochran's 
is  a  nice  girl,"  said  the  man.  The  woman  laughed. 
"She's  growing  up  and  attracting  men's  attention  now. 
Better  keep  your  eyes  in  your  head.  She'll  turn  out 
bad.  Like  mother,  like  daughter,"  the  woman  re 
plied. 

For  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  Mary  sat  on  the  stone  be 
neath  the  tree  in  the  orchard  and  thought  of  the  at 
titude  of  the  town  toward  herself  and  her  father. 
"It  should  have  drawn  us  together,"  she  told  herself, 
and  wondered  if  the  approach  of  death  would  do  what 
the  cloud  that  had  for  years  hung  over  them  had  not 
done.  It  did  not  at  the  moment  seem  to  her  cruel  that 
the  figure  of  death  was  soon  to  visit  her  father.  In  a 
way  Death  had  become  for  her  and  for  the  time  a  love 
ly  and  gracious  figure  intent  upon  good.  The  hand  of 
death  was  to  open  the  door  out  of  her  father's  house 
and  into  life.  With  the  cruelty  of  youth  she  thought 
first  of  the  adventurous  possibilities  of  the  new  life. 

Mary  sat  very  still.  In  the  long  weeds  the  insects 
that  had  been  disturbed  in  their  evening  song  began 
to  sing  again.  A  robin  flew  into  the  tree  beneath 
which  she  sat  and  struck  a  clear  sharp  note  of  alarm. 
The  voices  of  people  in  the  town's  new  factory  district 
came  softly  up  the  hillside.  They  were  like  bells  of 
distant  cathedrals  calling  people  to  worship.  Some- 


UNLIGHTED      LAMPS  75 

thing  within  the  girl's  breast  seemed  to  break  and 
putting  her  head  into  her  hands  she  rocked  slowly 
back  and  forth.  Tears  came  accompanied  by  a  warm 
tender  impulse  toward  the  living  men  and  women  of 
Huntersburg. 

And  then  from  the  road  came  a  call.  "Hello  there 
kid,"  shouted  a  voice,  and  Mary  sprang  quickly  to 
her  feet.  Her  mellow  mood  passed  like  a  puff  of 
wind  and  in  its  place  hot  anger  came. 

In  the  road  stood  Duke  Yetter  who  from  his  loafing 
place  before  the  livery  barn  had  seen  her  set  out  for  the 
Sunday  evening  walk  and  had  followed.  When  she 
went  through  Upper  Main  Street  and  into  the  new 
factory  district  he  was  sure  of  his  conquest.  "She 
doesn't  want  to  be  seen  walking  with  me,"  he  had  told 
himself,  "that's  all  right.  She  knows  well  enough  I'll 
follow  but  doesn't  want  me  to  put  in  an  appearance 
until  she  is  well  out  of  sight  of  her  friends.  She's  a 
little  stuck  up  and  needs  to  be  brought  down  a  peg,  but 
what  do  I  care?  She's  gone  out  of  her  way  to  give 
me  this  chance  and  maybe  she's  only  afraid  of  her  dad." 

Duke  climbed  the  little  incline  out  of  the  road  and 
came  into  the  orchard,  but  when  he  reached  the  pile  of 
stones  covered  by  vines  he  stumbled  and  fell.  He  arose 
and  laughed.  Mary  had  not  waited  for  him  to  reach 
her  but  had  started  toward  him,  and  when  his  laugh 
broke  the  silence  that  lay  over  the  orchard  she  sprang 
forward  and  with  her  open  hand  struck  him  a  sharp 


76         THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

blow  on  the  cheek.  Then  she  turned  and  as  he  stood 
with  his  feet  tangled  in  the  vines  ran  out  to  the  road. 
"If  you  follow  or  speak  to  me  I'll  get  someone  to  kill 
you,"  she  shouted. 

Mary  walked  along  the  road  and  down  the  hill 
toward  Wilmott  Street.  Broken  bits  of  the  story  con 
cerning  her  mother  that  had  for  years  circulated  in 
town  had  reached  her  ears.  Her  mother,  it  was  said, 
had  disappeared  on  a  summer  night  long  ago  and  a 
young  town  rough,  who  had  been  in  the  habit  of  loiter 
ing  before  Barney  Smithfield's  Livery  Barn,  had  gone 
away  with  her.  Now  another  young  rough  was  trying 
to  make  up  to  her.  The  thought  made  her  furious. 

Her  mind  groped  about  striving  to  lay  hold  of  some 
weapon  with  which  she  could  strike  a  more  telling  blow 
at  Duke  Yetter.  In  desperation  it  lit  upon  the  figure 
of  her  father  already  broken  in  health  and  now  about 
to  die.  "My  father  just  wants  the  chance  to  kill  some 
such  fellow  as  you,"  she  shouted,  turning  to  face  the 
young  man,  who  having  got  clear  of  the  mass  of  vines 
in  the  orchard,  had  followed  her  into  the  road.  "My 
father  just  wants  to  kill  someone  because  of  the  lies 
that  have  been  told  in  this  town  about  mother." 

Having  given  way  to  the  impulse  to  threaten  Duke 
Yetter  Mary  was  instantly  ashamed  of  her  outburst  and 
walked  rapidly  along,  the  tears  running  from  her  eyes. 
With  hanging  head  Duke  walked  at  her  heels.  "I 
didn't  mean  no  harm,  Miss  Cochran,"  he  pleaded.  "I 


UNLIGHTED      LAMPS  77 

didn't  mean  no  harm.    Don't  tell  your  father.    I  was 
only  funning  with  you.     I  tell  you  I  didn't  mean  no 

harm.'5 

*       *       * 

The  light  of  the  summer  evening  had  begun  to  fall 
and  the  faces  of  the  people  made  soft  little  ovals  of 
light  as  they  stood  grouped  under  the  dark  porches  or 
by  the  fences  in  Wilmott  Street.  The  voices  of  the 
children  had  become  subdued  and  they  also  stood  in 
groups.  They  became  silent  as  Mary  passed  and  stood 
with  upturned  faces  and  staring  eyes.  "The  lady 
doesn't  live  very  far.  She  must  be  almost  a  neighbor," 
she  heard  a  woman's  voice  saying  in  English.  When 
she  turned  her  head  she  saw  only  a  crowd  of  dark- 
skinned  men  standing  before  a  house.  From  within 
the  house  came  the  sound  of  a  woman's  voice  singing 
a  child  to  sleep. 

The  young  Italian,  who  had  called  to  her  earlier  in 
the  evening  and  who  was  now  apparently  setting  out 
of  his  own  Sunday  evening's  adventures,  came  along 
the  sidewalk  and  walked  quickly  away  into  the  dark 
ness.  He  had  dressed  himself  in  his  Sunday  clothes 
and  had  put  on  a  black  derby  hat  and  a  stiff  white 
collar,  set  off  by  a  red  necktie.  The  shining  whiteness 
of  the  collar  made  his  brown  skin  look  almost  black. 
He  smiled  boyishly  and  raised  his  hat  awkwardly  but 
did  not  speak. 

Mary  kept  looking  back  along  the  street  to  be  sure 


78         THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

Duke  Yetter  had  not  followed  but  in  the  dim  light 
could  see  nothing  of  him.  Her  angry  excited  mood 
went  away. 

She  did  not  want  to  go  home  and  decided  it  was 
too  late  to  go  to  church.  From  Upper  Main  Street 
there  was  a  short  street  that  ran  eastward  and  fell 
rather  sharply  down  a  hillside  to  a  creek  and  a  bridge 
that  marked  the  end  of  the  town's  growth  in  that 
direction.  She  went  down  along  the  street  to  the  bridge 
and  stood  in  the  failing  light  watching  two  boys  who 
were  fishing  in  the  creek. 

A  broad-shouldered  man  dressed  in  rough  clothes 
came  down  along  the  street  and  stopping  on  the  bridge 
spoke  to  her.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  heard 
a  citizen  of  her  home  town  speak  with  feeling  of  her 
father.  "You  are  Doctor  Cochran's  daughter?"  he 
asked  hesitatingly.  "I  guess  you  don't  know  who  I  am 
but  your  father  does."  He  pointed  toward  the  two 
boys  who  sat  with  fishpoles  in  their  hands  on  the  weed- 
grown  bank  of  the  creek.  "Those  are  my  boys  and  I 
have  four  other  children,"  he  explained.  "There  is  an 
other  boy  and  I  have  three  girls.  One  of  my  daughters 
has  a  job  in  a  store.  She  is  as  old  as  yourself."  The 
man  explained  his  relations  with  Doctor  Cochran.  He 
had  been  a  farm  laborer,  he  said,  and  had  but  recently 
moved  to  town  to  work  in  the  furniture  factory.  Dur 
ing  the  previous  winter  he  had  been  ill  for  a  long  time 
and  had  no  money.  While  he  lay  in  bed  one  of  his 


UNLIGHTED      LAMPS  79 

boys  fell  out  of  a  barn  loft  and  there  was  a  terrible 
cut  in  his  head. 

"Your  father  came  every  day  to  see  us  and  he  sewed 
up  my  Tom's  head."  The  laborer  turned  away  from 
Mary  and  stood  with  his  cap  in  his  hand  looking  toward 
the  boys.  "I  was  down  and  out  and  your  father  not 
only  took  care  of  me  and  the  boys  but  he  gave  my  old 
woman  money  to  buy  the  things  we  had  to  have  from 
the  stores  in  town  here,  groceries  and  medicines."  The 
man  spoke  in  such  low  tones  that  Mary  had  to  lean 
forward  to  hear  his  words.  Her  face  almost  touched 
the  laborer's  shoulder.  "Your  father  is  a  good  man 
and  I  don't  think  he  is  very  happy,"  he  went  on.'  "The 
boy  and  I  got  well  and  I  got  work  here  in  town  but 
he  wouldn't  take  any  money  from  me.  'You  know  how 
to  live  with  your  children  and  with  your  wife.  You 
know  how  to  make  them  happy.  Keep  your  money  and 
spend  it  on  them,'  that's  what  he  said  to  me." 

The  laborer  went  on  across  the  bridge  and  along  the 
creek  bank  toward  the  spot  where  his  two  sons  sat 
fishing  and  Mary  leaned  on  the  railing  of  the  bridge 
and  looked  at  the  slow  moving  water.  It  was  almost 
black  in  the  shadows  under  the  bridge  and  she  thought 
that  it  was  thus  her  father's  life  had  been  lived.  "It 
has  been  like  a  stream  running  always  in  shadows  and 
never  coming  out  into  the  sunlight,"  she  thought,  and 
fear  that  her  own  life  would  run  on  in  darkness  gripped 
her.  A  great  new  love  for  her  father  swept  over  her 


80         THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

and  in  fancy  she  felt  his  arms  about  her.  As  a  child 
she  had  continually  dreamed  of  caresses  received  at 
her  father's  hands  and  now  the  dream  came  back.  For 
a  long  time  she  stood  looking  at  the  stream  and  she 
resolved  that  the  night  should  not  pass  without  an 
effort  on  her  part  to  make  the  old  dream  come  true. 
When  she  again  looked  up  the  laborer  had  built  a  little 
fire  of  sticks  at  the  edge  of  the  stream.  "We  catch 
bullheads  here,"  he  called.  uThe  light  of  the  fire 
draws  them  close  to  the  shore.  If  you  want  to  come 
and  try  your  hand  at  fishing  the  boys  will  lend  you  one 
of  the  poles." 

"O,  I  thank  you,  I  won't  do  it  tonight,"  Mary  said, 
and  then  fearing  she  might  suddenly  begin  weeping 
and  that  if  the  man  spoke  to  her  again  she  would  find 
herself  unable  to  answer,  she  hurried  away.  "Good 
bye !"  shouted  the  man  and  the  two  boys.  The  words 
came  quite  spontaneously  out  of  the  three  throats  and 
created  a  sharp  trumpet-like  effect  that  rang  like  a  glad 
cry  across  the  heaviness  of  her  mood. 
*  *  * 

When  his  daughter  Mary  went  out  for  her  evening 
walk  Doctor  Cochran  sat  for  an  hour  alone  in  his 
office.  It  began  to  grow  dark  and  the  men  who  all 
afternoon  had  been  sitting  on  chairs  and  boxes  before 
the  livery  barn  across  the  street  went  home  for  the 
evening  meal.  The  noise  of  voices  grew  faint  and 
sometimes  for  five  or  ten  minutes  there  was  silence. 


UNLIGHTED      LAMPS  8l 

Then  from  some  distant  street  came  a  child's  cry.  Pres 
ently  church  bells  began  to  ring. 

The  Doctor  was  not  a  very  neat  man  and  some 
times  for  several  days  he  forgot  to  shave.  With  a 
long  lean  hand  he  stroked  his  half  grown  beard.  His 
illness  had  struck  deeper  than  he  had  admitted  even  to 
himself  and  his  mind  had  an  inclination  to  float  out 
of  his  body.  Often  when  he  sat  thus  his  hands  lay  in 
his  lap  and  he  looked  at  them  with  a  child's  absorption. 
It  seemed  to  him  they  must  belong  to  someone  else. 
He  grew  philosophic.  "It's  an  odd  thing  about  my 
body.  Here  I've  lived  in  it  all  these  years  and  how 
little  use  I  have  had  of  it.  Now  it's  going  to  die  and 
decay  never  having  been  used.  I  wonder  why  it  did 
not  get  another  tenant."  He  smiled  sadly  over  this 
fancy  but  went  on  with  it.  "Well  I've  had  thoughts 
enough  concerning  people  and  I've  had  the  use  of  these 
lips  and  a  tongue  but  I've  let  them  lie  idle.  When 
my  Ellen  was  here  living  with  me  I  let  her  think  me 
cold  and  unfeeling  while  something  within  me  was 
straining  and  straining  trying  to  tear  itself  loose." 

He  remembered  how  often,  as  a  young  man,  he  had 
sat  in  the  evening  in  silence  beside  his  wife  in  this  same 
office  and  how  his  hands  had  ached  to  reach  across  the 
narrow  space  that  separated  them  and  touch  her  hands, 
her  face,  her  hair. 

Well,  everyone  in  town  had  predicted  his  marriage 
would  turn  out  badly !  His  wife  had  been  an  actress 


82         THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

with  a  company  that  came  to  Huntersburg  and  got 
stranded  there.  At  the  same  time  the  girl  became  ill 
and  had  no  money  to  pay  for  her  room  at  the  hotel. 
The  young  doctor  had  attended  to  that  and  when  the 
girl  was  convalescent  took  her  to  ride  about  the  coun 
try  in  his  buggy.  Her  life  had  been  a  hard  one  and 
the  notion  of  leading  a  quiet  existence  in  the  little  town 
appealed  to  her. 

And  then  after  the  marriage  and  after  the  child 
was  born  she  had  suddenly  found  herself  unable  to  go 
on  living  with  the  silent  cold  man.  There  had  been 
a  story  of  her  having  run  away  with  a  young  sport, 
the  son  of  a  saloon  keeper  who  had  disappeared  from 
town  at  the  same  time,  but  the  story  was  untrue.  Lester 
Cochran  had  himself  taken  her  to  Chicago  where  she 
got  work  with  a  company  going  into  the  far  western 
states.  Then  he  had  taken  her  to  the  door  of  her 
hotel,  had  put  money  into  her  hands  and  in  silence  and 
without  even  a  farewell  kiss  had  turned  and  walked 
away. 

The  Doctor  sat  in  his  office  living  over  that  moment 
and  other  intense  moments  when  he  had  been  deeply 
stirred  and  had  been  on  the  surface  so  cool  and  quiet. 
He  wondered  if  the  woman  had  known.  How  many 
times  he  had  asked  himself  that  question.  After  he 
left  her  that  night  at  the  hotel  door  she  never  wrote. 
"Perhaps  she  is  dead,"  he  thought  for  the  thousandth 
time. 


UNLIGHTED      LAMPS  83 

A  thing  happened  that  had  been  happening  at  odd 
moments  for  more  than  a  year.  In  Doctor  Cochran's 
mind  the  remembered  figure  of  his  wife  became  con 
fused  with  the  figure  of  his  daughter.  When  at  such 
moments  he  tried  to  separate  the  two  figures,  to  make 
them  stand  out  distinct  from  each  other,  he  was  un 
successful.  Turning  his  head  slightly  he  imagined  he 
saw  a  white  girlish  figure  coming  through  a  door  out 
of  the  rooms  in  which  he  and  his  daughter  lived.  The 
door  was  painted  white  and  swung  slowly  in  a  light 
breeze  that  came  in  at  an  open  window.  The  wind 
ran  softly  and  quietly  through  the  room  and  played 
over  some  papers  lying  on  a  desk  in  a  corner.  There 
was  a  soft  swishing  sound  as  of  a  woman's  skirts.  The 
doctor  arose  and  stood  trembling.  "Which  is  it?  Is 
it  you  Mary  or  is  it  Ellen?"  he  asked  huskily. 

On  the  stairway  leading  up  from  the  street  there 
was  the  sound  of  heavy  feet  and  the  outer  door  opened. 
The  doctor's  weak  heart  fluttered  and  he  dropped 
heavily  back  into  his  chair. 

A  man  came  into  the  room.  He  was  a  farmer,  one 
of  the  doctor's  patients,  and  coming  to  the  centre  of  the 
room  he  struck  a  match,  held  it  above  his  head  and 
shouted.  "Hello !"  he  called.  When  the  doctor  arose 
from  his  chair  and  answered  he  was  so  startled  that  the 
match  fell  from  his  hand  and  lay  burning  faintly  at 
his  feet. 

The  young  farmer  had  sturdy  legs  that  were  like  two 


84        THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

pillars  of  stone  supporting  a  heavy  building,  and  the 
little  flame  of  the  match  that  burned  and  fluttered  in 
the  light  breeze  on  the  floor  between  his  feet  threw 
dancing  shadows  along  the  walls  of  the  room.  The 
doctor's  confused  mind  refused  to  clear  itself  of  his 
fancies  that  now  began  to  feed  upon  this  new  situation. 

He  forgot  the  presence  of  the  farmer  and  his  mind 
raced  back  over  his  life  as  a  married  man.  The  flicker 
ing  light  on  the  wall  recalled  another  dancing  light. 
One  afternoon  in  the  summer  during  the  first  year 
after  his  marriage  his  wife  Ellen  had  driven  with  him 
into  the  country.  They  were  then  furnishing  their 
rooms  and  at  a  farmer's  house  Ellen  had  seen  an  old 
mirror,  no  longer  in  use,  standing  against  a  wall  in  a 
shed.  Because  of  something  quaint  in  the  design  the 
mirror  had  taken  her  fancy  and  the  farmer's  wife  had 
given  it  to  hen  On  the  drive  home  the  young  wife  had 
told  her  husband  of  her  pregnancy  and  the  doctor  had 
been  stirred  as  never  before.  He  sat  holding  the  mir 
ror  on  his  knees  while  his  wife  drove  and  when  she 
announced  the  coming  of  the  child  she  looked  away 
across  the  fields. 

How  deeply  etched,  that  scene  in  the  sick  man's 
mind !  The  sun  was  going  down  over  young  corn  and 
oat  fields  beside  the  road.  The  prairie  land  was  black 
and  occasionally  the  road  ran  through  short  lanes  of 
trees  that  also  looked  black  in  the  waning  light. 

The  mirror  on  his  knees  caught  the  rays  of  the  de- 


UNLIGHTED      LAMPS  85 

parting  sun  and  sent  a  great  ball  of  golden  light  dancing 
across  the  fields  and  among  the  branches  of  trees.  Now 
as  he  stood  in  the  presence  of  the  farmer  and  as  the 
little  light  from  the  burning  match  on  the  floor  recalled 
that  other  evening  of  dancing  lights,  he  thought  he 
understood  the  failure  of  his  marriage  and  of  his  life. 
On  that  evening  long  ago  when  Ellen  had  told  him  of 
the  coming  of  the  great  adventure  of  their  marriage 
he  had  remained  silent  because  he  had  thought  no 
words  he  could  utter  would  express  what  he  felt. 
There  had  been  a  defense  for  himself  built  up.  "I  told 
myself  she  should  have  understood  without  words  and 
I've  all  my  life  been  telling  myself  the  same  thing  about 
Mary.  I've  been  a  fool  and  a  coward.  I've  always 
been  silent  because  I've  been  afraid  of  expressing  my 
self — like  a  blundering  fool.  I've  been  a  proud  man 
and  a  coward. 

"Tonight  I'll  do  it.  If  it  kills  me  I'll  make  myself 
talk  to  the  girl,"  he  said  aloud,  his  mind  coming  back 
to  the  figure  of  his  daughter. 

uHey!  What's  that?"  asked  the  farmer  who  stood 
with  his  hat  in  his  hand  waiting  to  tell  of  his  mission. 

The  doctor  got  his  horse  from  Barney  Smithfield's 
livery  and  drove  off  to  the  country  to  attend  the  farm 
er's  wife  who  was  about  to  give  birth  to  her  first  child. 
She  was  a  slender  narrow-hipped  woman  and  the  child 
was  large,  but  the  doctor  was  feverishly  strong.  He 
worked  desperately  and  the  woman,  who  was  fright- 


86         THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

ened,  groaned  and  struggled.  Her  husband  kept  com 
ing  in  and  going  out  of  the  room  and  two  neighbor 
women  appeared  and  stood  silently  about  waiting  to  be 
of  service.  It  was  past  ten  o'clock  when  everything 
was  done  and  the  doctor  was  ready  to  depart  for  town. 

The  farmer  hitched  his  horse  and  brought  it  to  the 
door  and  the  doctor  drove  off  feeling  strangely  weak 
and  at  the  same  time  strong.  How  simple  now  seemed 
the  thing  he  had  yet  to  do.  Perhaps  when  he  got  home 
his  daughter  would  have  gone  to  bed  but  he  would  ask 
her  to  get  up  and  come  into  the  office.  Then  he  would 
tell  the  whole  story  of  his  marriage  and  its  failure  spar 
ing  himself  no  humiliation.  "There  was  something  very 
dear  and  beautiful  in  my  Ellen  and  I  must  make  Mary 
understand  that.  It  will  help  her  to  be  a  beautiful 
woman,"  he  thought,  full  of  confidence  in  the  strength 
of  his  resolution. 

He  got  to  the  door  of  the  livery  barn  at  eleven 
o'clock  and  Barney  Smithfield  with  young  Duke  Yetter 
and  two  other  men  sat  talking  there.  The  liveryman 
took  his  horse  away  into  the  darkness  of  the  barn  and 
the  doctor  stood  for  a  moment  leaning  against  the  wall 
of  the  building.  The  town's  night  watchman  stood 
with  the  group  by  the  barn  door  and  a  quarrel  broke 
out  between  him  and  Duke  Yetter,  but  the  doctor  did 
not  hear  the  hot  words  that  flew  back  and  forth  or 
Duke's  loud  laughter  at  the  night  watchman's  anger. 
A  queer  hesitating  mood  had  taken  possession  of  him. 


UNLIGHTED      LAMPS  87 

There  was  something  he  passionately  desired  to  do  but 
could  not  remember.  Did  it  have  to  do  with  his  wife 
Ellen  or  Mary  his  daughter?  The  figures  of  the  two 
women  were  again  confused  in  his  mind  and  to  add  to 
the  confusion  there  was  a  third  figure,  that  of  the 
woman  he  had  just  assisted  through  child  birth.  Every 
thing  was  confusion.  He  started  across  the  street 
toward  the  entrance  of  the  stairway  leading  to  his 
office  and  then  stopped  in  the  road  and  stared  abouc. 
Barney  Smithfield  having  returned  from  putting  his 
horse  in  the  stall  shut  the  door  of  the  barn  and  a  hang 
ing  lantern  over  the  door  swung  back  and  forth.  It 
threw  grotesque  dancing  shadows  down  over  the  faces 
and  forms  of  the  men  standing  and  quarreling  beside 
the  wall  of  the  barn. 

*       *       * 

Mary  sat  by  a  window  in  the  doctor's  office  awaiting 
his  return.  So  absorbed  was  she  in  her  own  thoughts 
that  she  was  unconscious  of  the  voice  of  Duke  Yetter 
talking  with  the  men  in  the  street. 

When  Duke  had  come  into  the  street  the  hot  anger 
of  the  early  part  of  the  evening  had  returned  and  she 
again  saw  him  advancing  toward  her  in  the  orchard 
with  the  look  of  arrogant  male  confidence  in  his  eyes 
but  presently  she  forgot  him  and  thought  only  of  her 
father.  An  incident  of  her  childhood  returned  to  haunt 
her.  One  afternoon  in  the  month  of  May  when  she 
was  fifteen  her  father  had  asked  her  to  accompany  him 


88         THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

on  an  evening  drive  into  the  country.  The  doctor  went 
to  visit  a  sick  woman  at  a  farmhouse  five  miles  from 
town  and  as  there  had  been  a  great  deal  of  rain  the 
roads  were  heavy.  It  was  dark  when  they  reached  the 
farmer's  house  and  they  went  into  the  kitchen  and  ate 
cold  food  off  a  kitchen  table.  For  some  reason  her 
father  had,  on  that  evening,  appeared  boyish  and  al 
most  gay.  On  the  road  he  had  talked  a  little.  Even 
at  that  early  age  Mary  had  grown  tall  and  her  figure 
was  becoming  womanly.  After  the  cold  supper  in  the 
farm  kitchen  he  walked  with  her  around  the  house  and 
she  sat  on  a  narrow  porch.  For  a  moment  her  father 
stood  before  her.  He  put  his  hands  into  his  trouser 
pockets  and  throwing  back  his  head  laughed  almost 
heartily.  "It  seems  strange  to  think  you  will  soon  be  a 
woman,"  he  said.  "When  you  do  become  a  woman 
what  do  you  suppose  is  going  to  happen,  eh?  What 
kind  of  a  life  will  you  lead?  What  will  happen  to 
you?" 

The  doctor  sat  on  the  porch  beside  the  child  and  for 
a  moment  she  had  thought  he  was  about  to  put  his  arm 
around  her.  Then  he  jumped  up  and  went  into  the 
house  leaving  her  to  sit  alone  in  the  darkness. 

As  she  remembered  the  incident  Mary  remembered 
also  that  on  that  evening  of  her  childhood  she  had  met 
her  father's  advances  in  silence.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
she,  not  her  father,  was  to  blame  for  the  life  they  had 
led  together.  The  farm  laborer  she  had  met  on  the 


JJNLIGHTED      LAMPS  89 

bridge  had  not  felt  her  father's  coldness.  That  was 
because  he  had  himself  been  warm  and  generous  in  his 
attitude  toward  the  man  who  had  cared  for  him  in  his 
hour  of  sickness  and  misfortune.  Her  father  had  said 
that  the  laborer  knew  how  to  be  a  father  and  Mary 
remembered  with  what  warmth  the  two  boys  fishing  by 
the  creek  had  called  to  her  as  she  went  away  into  the 
darkness.  "Their  father  has  known  how  to  be  a 
father  because  his  children  have  known  how  to  give 
themselves,"  she  thought  guiltily.  She  also  would  give 
herself.  Before  the  night  had  passed  she  would  do 
that.  On  that  evening  long  ago  and  as  she  rode  home 
beside  her  father  he  had  made  another  unsuccessful 
effort  to  break  through  the  wall  that  separated  them. 
The  heavy  rains  had  swollen  the  streams  they  had  to 
cross  and  when  they  had  almost  reached  town  he  had 
stopped  the  horse  on  a  wooden  bridge.  The  horse 
danced  nervously  about  and  her  father  held  the  reins 
firmly  and  occasionally  spoke  to  him.  Beneath  the 
bridge  the  swollen  stream  made  a  great  roaring  sound 
and  beside  the  road  in  a  long  flat  field  there  was  a  lake 
of  flood  water.  At  that  moment  the  moon  had  come 
out  from  behind  clouds  and  the  wind  that  blew  across 
the  water  made  little  waves.  The  lake  of  flood  water 
was  covered  with  dancing  lights.  "I'm  going  to  tell 
you  about  your  mother  and  myself,"  her  father  said 
huskily,  but  at  that  moment  the  timbers  of  the  bridge 
began  to  crack  dangerously  and  the  horse  plunged  for- 


90         THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

ward.  When  her  father  had  regained  control  of  the 
frightened  beast  they  were  in  the  streets  of  the  town 
and  his  diffident  silent  nature  had  reasserted  itself. 

Mary  sat  in  the  darkness  by  the  office  window  and 
saw  her  father  drive  into  the  street.  When  his  horse 
had  been  put  away  he  did  not,  as  was  his  custom,  come 
at  once  up  the  stairway  to  the  office  but  lingered  in  the 
darkness  before  the  barn  door.  Once  he  started  to 
cross  the  street  and  then  returned  into  the  darkness. 

Among  the  men  who  for  two  hours  had  been  sitting 
and  talking  quietly  a  quarrel  broke  out.  Jack  Fisher 
the  town  nightwatchman  had  been  telling  the  others 
the  story  of  a  battle  in  which  he  had  fought  during  the 
Civil  War  and  Duke  Yetter  had  begun  bantering  him. 
The  nightwatchman  grew  angry.  Grasping  his  night 
stick  he  limped  up  and  down.  The  loud  voice  of  Duke 
Yetter  cut  across  the  shrill  angry  voice  of  the  victim  of 
his  wit.  "You  ought  to  a  flanked  the  fellow,  I  tell  you 
Jack.  Yes  sir  'ee,  you  ought  to  a  flanked  that  reb  and 
then  when  you  got  him  flanked  you  ought  to  a  knocked 
the  stuffings  out  of  the  cuss.  That's  what  I  would  a 
done,"  Duke  shouted,  laughing  boisterously.  "You 
would  a  raised  hell,  you  would/'  the  night  watchman 
answered,  filled  with  ineffectual  wrath.  N 

The  old  soldier  went  off  along  the  street  followed 
by  the  laughter  of  Duke  and  his  companions  and  Bar 
ney  Smithfield,  having  put  the  doctor's  horse  away, 
came  out  and  closed  the  barn  door.  A  lantern  hanging 


UNLIGHTED      LAMPS  91 

above  the  door  swung  back  and  forth.  Doctor  Coch- 
ran  again  started  across  the  street  and  when  he  had 
reached  the  foot  of  the  stairway  turned  and  shouted  to 
the  men.  "Good  night,"  he  called  cheerfully.  A 
strand  of  hair  was  blown  by  the  light  summer  breeze 
across  Mary's  cheek  and  she  jumped  to  her  feet  as 
though  she  had  been  touched  by  a  hand  reached  out  to 
her  from  the  darkness.  A  hundred  times  she  had  seen 
her  father  return  from  drives  in  the  evening  but  never 
before  had  he  said  anything  at  all  to  the  loiterers  by 
the  barn  door.  She  became  half  convinced  that  not 
her  father  but  some  other  man  was  now  coming  up  the 
stairway. 

The  heavy  dragging  footsteps  rang  loudly  on  the 
wooden  stairs  and  Mary  heard  her  father  set  down  the 
little  square  medicine  case  he  always  carried.  The 
strange  cheerful  hearty  mood  of  the  man  continued 
out  his  mind  was  in  a  confused  riot.  Mary  imagined 
she  could  see  his  dark  form  in  the  doorway.  "The 
woman  has  had  a  baby,"  said  the  hearty  voice  from  the 
landing  outside  the  door.  "Who  did  that  happen  to? 
Was  it  Ellen  or  that  other  woman  or  my  little  Mary?" 

A  stream  of  words,  a  protest  came  from  the  man's 
lips.  "Who's  been  having  a  baby?  I  want  to  know. 
Who's  been  having  a  baby?  Life  doesn't  work  out. 
Why  are  babies  always  being  born?"  he  asked. 

A  laugh  broke  from  the  doctor's  lips  and  his  daugh 
ter  leaned  forward  and  gripped  the  arms  of  her  chair. 


92         THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

UA  babe  has  been  born,"  he  said  again.  "It's  strange 
eh,  that  my  hands  should  have  helped  a  baby  be  born 
while  all  the  time  death  stood  at  my  elbow?" 

Doctor  Cochran  stamped  upon  the  floor  of  the  land 
ing.  "My  feet  are  cold  and  numb  from  waiting  for  life 
to  come  out  of  life,"  he  said  heavily.  "The  woman 
struggled  and  now  I  must  struggle." 

Silence  followed  the  stamping  of  feet  and  the  tired 
heavy  declaration  from  the  sick  man's  lips.  From  the 
street  below  came  another  loud  shout  of  laughter  from 
Duke  Yetter. 

And  then  Doctor  Cochran  fell  backward  down  the 
narrow  stairs  to  the  street.  There  was  no  cry  from 
him,  just  the  clatter  of  his  shoes  upon  the  stairs  and  the 
terrible  subdued  sound  of  the  body  falling. 

Mary  did  not  move  from  her  chair.  With  closed 
eyes  she  waited.  Her  heart  pounded.  A  weakness 
complete  and  overmastering  had  possession  of  her  and 
from  feet  to  head  ran  little  waves  of  feeling  as  though 
tiny  creatures  with  soft  hair-like  feet  were  playing  upon 
her  body. 

It  was  Duke  Yetter  who  carried  the  dead  man  up  the 
stairs  and  laid  him  on  a  bed  in  one  of  the  rooms  back 
of  the  office.  One  of  the  men  who  had  been  sitting  with 
him  before  the  door  of  the  barn  followed  lifting  his 
hands  and  dropping  them  nervously.  Between  his 
fingers  he  held  a  forgotten  cigarette  the  light  from 
which  danced  up  and  down  in  the  darkness. 


SENILITY 

TLT  E  WAS  an  old  man  and  he  sat  on  the  steps  of  the 
railroad  station  in  a  small  Kentucky  town. 

A  well  dressed  man,  some  traveler  from  the  city, 
approached  and  stood  before  him. 

The  old  man  became  self-conscious. 

His  smile  was  like  the  smile  of  a  very  young  child. 
His  face  was  all  sunken  and  wrinkled  and  he  had  a 
huge  nose. 

"Have  you  any  coughs,  colds,  consumption  or  bleed 
ing  sickness  ?"  he  asked.  In  his  voice  there  was  a 
pleading  quality. 

The  stranger  shook  his  head.    The  old  man  arose. 

"The  sickness  that  bleeds  is  a  terrible  nuisance,"  he 
said.  His  tongue  protruded  from  between  his  teeth 
and  he  rattled  it  about.  He  put  his  hand  on  the 
stranger's  arm  and  laughed. 

"Bully,  pretty,"  he  exclaimed.  "I  cure  them  all — 
coughs,  colds,  consumption  and  the  sickness  that  bleeds. 
I  take  warts  from  the  hand — I  cannot  explain  how  I  do 
it — it  is  a  mystery — I  charge  nothing — my  name  is 
Tom — do  you  like  me?" 

The  stranger  was  cordial.  He  nodded  his  head. 
The  old  man  became  reminiscent. 

93 


94         THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

"My  father  was  a  hard  man,"  he  declared.  uHe 
was  like  me,  a  blacksmith  by  trade,  but  he  wore  a  plug 
hat.  When  the  corn  was  high  he  said  to  the  poor,  'go 
into  the  fields  and  pick*  but  when  the  war  came  he  made 
a  rich  man  pay  five  dollars  for  a  bushel  of  corn." 

"I  married  against  his  will.  He  came  to  me  and  he 
said,  Tom  I  do  not  like  that  girl.'  " 

"  'But  I  love  her/  I  said. 

"  'I  don't,'  he  said. 

"My  father  and  I  sat  on  a  log.  He  was  a  pretty 
man  and  wore  a  plug  hat.  'I  will  get  the  license,'  I 
said. 

"  'I  will  give  you  no  money,*  he  said. 

"My  marriage  cost  me  twenty-one  dollars — I 
worked  in  the  corn — it  rained  and  the  horses  were 
blind — the  clerk  said,  'Are  you  over  twenty-one?'  I 
said  'yes'  and  she  said  'yes.'  We  had  chalked  it  on  our 
shoes.  My  father  said,  'I  give  you  your  freedom.' 
We  had  no  money.  My  marriage  cost  twenty-one  dol 
lars.  She  is  dead." 

The  old  man  looked  at  the  sky.  It  was  evening  and 
the  sun  had  set.  The  sky  was  all  mottled  with  grey 
clouds.  "I  paint  beautiful  pictures  and  give  them 
away,"  he  declared.  "My  brother  is  in  the  peniten 
tiary.  He  killed  a  man  who  called  him  an  ugly  name." 

The  decrepit  old  man  held  his  hands  before  the  face 
of  the  stranger.  He  opened  and  shut  them.  They 
were  black  with  grime.  "I  pick  out  warts,"  he  ex- 


SENILITY  95 

plained  plaintively.    "They  are  as  soft  as  your  hands." 

"I  play  on  an  accordion.  You  are  thirty-seven  years 
old.  I  sat  beside  my  brother  in  the  penitentiary.  He 
is  a  pretty  man  with  pompadour  hair.  'Albert,'  I  said, 
'are  you  sorry  you  killed  a  man?'  'No,'  he  said,  'I 
am  not  sorry.  I  would  kill  ten,  a  hundred,  a  thou 
sand  I1" 

The  old  man  began  to  weep  and  to  wipe  his  hands 
with  a  soiled  handkerchief.  He  attempted  to  take  a 
chew  of  tobacco  and  his  false  teeth  became  displaced. 
He  covered  his  mouth  with  his  hands  and  was  ashamed. 

"I  am  old.  You  are  thirty-seven  years  old  but  I  am 
older  than  that,"  he  whispered. 

"My  brother  is  a  bad  man — he  is  full  of  hate — he 
is  pretty  and  has  pompadour  hair,  but  he  would  kill 
and  kill.  I  hate  old  age — I  am  ashamed  that  I  am  old. 

"I  have  a  pretty  new  wife.  I  wrote  her  four  letters 
and  she  replied.  She  came  here  and  we  married — I 
love  to  see  her  walk — O,  I  buy  her  pretty  clothes. 

"Her  foot  is  not  straight — it  is  twisted — my  first 
wife  is  dead — I  pick  warts  off  the  hand  with  my  fingers 
and  no  blood  comes — I  cure  coughs,  colds,  consump 
tion  and  the  sickness  that  bleeds — people  can  write  to 
me  and  I  answer  the  letters — if  they  send  me  no  money 
it  is  no  matter — all  is  free." 

Again  the  old  man  wept  and  the  stranger  tried  to 
comfort  him.  "You  are  a  happy  man?"  the  stranger 
asked. 


96        THE     TRIUMPH      OF     THE      EGG 

"Yes,"  said  the  old  man,  "and  a  good  man  too.  Ask 
everywhere  about  me — my  name  is  Tom,  a  blacksmith 
— my  wife  walks  prettily  although  she  has  a  twisted 
foot — I  have  bought  her  a  long  dress — she  is  thirty 
and  I  am  seventy-five — she  has  many  pairs  of  shoes — 
I  have  bought  them  for  her,  but  her  foot  is  twisted — I 
buy  straight  shoes — 

"She  thinks  I  do  not  know — everybody  thinks  Tom 
does  not  know — I  have  bought  her  a  long  dress  that 
comes  down  to  the  ground — my  name  is  Tom,  a  black 
smith — I  am  seventy-five  and  I  hate  old  age — I  take 
warts  off  the  hands  and  no  blood  comes — people  may 
write  to  me  and  I  answer  the  letters — all  is  free." 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  BROWN  COAT 


Napoleon  went  down  into  a  battle  riding  on  a  horse. 
Alexander  went  down  into  a  battle  riding  on  a  horse. 
General  Grant  got  off  a  horse  and  walked  in  a  wood. 
General  Hindenburg  stood  on  a  hill. 
The  moon  came  up  out  of  a  clump  of  bushes. 


T  AM  writing  a  history  of  the  things  men  do.  I  have 
•*•  written  three  such  histories  and  I  am  but  a  young 
man.  Already  I  have  written  three  hundred,  four 
hundred  thousand  words. 

My  wife  is  somewhere  in  this  house  where  for  hours 
now  I  have  been  sitting  and  writing.  She  is  a  tall 
woman  with  black  hair,  turning  a  little  grey.  Listen, 
she  is  going  softly  up  a  flight  of  stairs.  All  day  she 
goes  softly  about,  doing  the  housework  in  our  house. 

I  came  here  to  this  town  from  another  town  in  the 
state  of  Iowa.  My  father  was  a  workman,  a  house 
painter.  He  did  not  rise  in  the  world  as  I  have  done. 
I  worked  my  way  through  college  and  became  an  his 
torian.  We  own  this  house  in  which  I  sit.  This  is 
my  room  in  which  I  work.  Already  I  have  written 
three  histories  of  peoples.  I  have  told  how  states  were 
formed  and  battles  fought.  You  may  see  my  books 
standing  straight  up  on  the  shelves  of  libraries.  They 
stand  up  like  sentries. 

97 


98         THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

I  am  tall  like  my  wife  and  my  shoulders  are  a  little 
stooped.  Although  I  write  boldly  I  am  a  shy  man. 
I  like  being  at  work  alone  in  this  room  with  the  door 
closed.  There  are  many  books  here.  Nations  march 
back  and  forth  in  the  books.  It  is  quiet  here  but  in  the 
books  a  great  thundering  goes  on. 


Napoleon  rides  down  a  hill  and  into  a  battle. 

General  Grant  walks  in  a  wood. 

Alexander  rides  down  a  hill  and  into  a  battle. 


My  wife  has  a  serious,  almost  stern  look.  Some 
times  the  thoughts  I  have  concerning  her  frighten  me. 
In  the  afternoon  she  leaves  our  house  and  goes  for  a 
walk.  Sometimes  she  goes  to  stores,  sometimes  to 
visit  a  neighbor.  There  is  a  yellow  house  opposite  our 
house.  My  wife  goes  out  at  a  side  door  and  passes 
along  the  street  between  our  house  and  the  yellow 
house. 

The  side  door  of  our  house  bangs.  There  is  a  mo 
ment  of  waiting.  My  wife's  face  floats  across  the  yel 
low  background  of  a  picture. 


General  Pershing  rode  down  a  hill  and  into  a  battle. 
Alexander  rode  down  a  hill  and  into  a  battle. 


Little  things  are  growing  big  in  my  mind.    The  win 
dow  before  my  desk  makes  a  little  framed  place  like  a 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  BROWN  COAT  99 

picture.  Every  day  I  sit  staring.  I  wait  with  an  odd 
sensation  of  something  impending.  My  hand  trembles. 
The  face  that  floats  through  the  picture  does  something 
I  don't  understand.  The  face  floats,  then  it  stops.  It 
goes  from  the  right  hand  side  to  the  left  hand  side,  then 
it  stops. 

The  face  conies  into  my  mind  and  goes  out — the  face 
floats  in  my  mind.  The  pen  has  fallen  from  my  fingers. 
The  house  is  silent.  The  eyes  of  the  floating  face  are 
turned  away  from  me. 

My  wife  is  a  girl  who  came  here  to  this  town  from 
another  town  in  the  state  of  Ohio.  We  keep  a  servant 
but  my  wife  often  sweeps  the  floors  and  she  sometimes 
makes  the  bed  in  which  we  sleep  together.  We  sit  to 
gether  in  the  evening  but  I  do  not  know  her.  I  cannot 
shake  myself  out  of  myself.  I  wear  a  brown  coat  and 
I  cannot  come  out  of  my  coat.  I  cannot  come  out  of 
myself.  My  wife  is  very  gentle  and  she  speaks  softly 
but  she  cannot  come  out  of  herself. 

My  wife  has  gone  out  of  the  house.  She  does  not 
know  that  I  know  every  little  thought  of  her  life.  I 
know  what  she  thought  when  she  was  a  child  and 
walked  in  the  streets  of  an  Ohio  town.  I  have  heard 
the  voices  of  her  mind.  I  have  heard  the  little  voices. 
I  heard  the  voice  of  fear  crying  when  she  was  first 
overtaken  with  passion  and  crawled  into  my  arms. 
Again  I  heard  the  voices  of  fear  when  her  lips  said 
words  of  courage  to  me  as  we  sat  together  on  the 


100      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

first  evening  after  we  were  married  and  moved  into  this 
house. 

It  would  be  strange  if  I  could  sit  here,  as  I  am  doing 
now,  while  my  own  face  floated  across  the  picture  made 
by  the  yellow  house  and  the  window.  It  would  be 
strange  and  beautiful  if  I  could  meet  my  wife,  come 
into  her  presence. 

The  woman  whose  face  floated  across  my  picture 
just  now  knows  nothing  of  me.  I  know  nothing  of  her. 
She  has  gone  off,  along  a  street.  The  voices  of  her 
mind  are  talking.  I  am  here  in  this  room,  as  alone  as 
ever  any  man  God  made. 

It  would  be  strange  and  beautiful  if  I  could  float 
my  face  across  my  picture.  If  my  floating  face  could 
come  into  her  presence,  if  it  could  come  into  the  pres 
ence  of  any  man  or  any  woman — that  would  be  a 
strange  and  beautiful  thing  to  have  happen. 


Napoleon  went  down  into  a  battle  riding  on  a  horse. 

General  Grant  went  into  a  wood. 

Alexander  went  down  into  a  battle  riding  on  a  horse. 


I'll  tell  you  what — sometimes  the  whole  life  of  this 
world  floats  in  a  human  face  in  my  mind.  The  uncon 
scious  face  of  the  world  stops  and  stands  still  before 
me. 

Why  do  I  not  say  a  word  out  of  myself  to  the 
others?  Why,  in  all  our  life  together,  have  I  never 
been  able  to  break  through  the  wall  to  my  wife? 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  BROWN  COATIOI 

Already  I  have  written  three  hundred,  four  hundred 
thousand  words.  Are  there  no  words  that  lead  into 
life?  Some  day  I  shall  speak  to  myself.  Some  day 
I  shall  make  a  testament  unto  myself. 


BROTHERS 

f  AM  at  my  house  in  the  country  and  it  is  late  Octo 
ber.  It  rains.  Back  of  my  house  is  a  forest  and 
in  front  there  is  a  road  and  beyond  that  open  fields. 
The  country  is  one  of  low  hills,  flattening  suddenly 
into  plains.  Some  twenty  miles  away,  across  the  flat 
country,  lies  the  huge  city  Chicago. 

On  this  rainy  day  the  leaves  of  the  trees  that  line 
the  road  before  my  window  are  falling  like  rain,  the 
yellow,  red  and  golden  leaves  fall  straight  down 
fieavily.  The  rain  beats  them  brutally  down.  They 
are  denied  a  last  golden  flash  across  the  sky.  In 
October  leaves  should  be  carried  away,  out  over  the 
plains,  in  a  wind.  They  should  go  dancing  away. 

Yesterday  morning  I  arose  at  daybreak  and  went 
for  a  walk.  There  was  a  heavy  fog  and  I  lost  myself 
in  it.  I  went  down  into  the  plains  and  returned  to  the 
hills,  and  everywhere  the  fog  was  as  a  wall  before  me. 
Out  of  it  trees  sprang  suddenly,  grotesquely,  as  in  a 
city  street  late  at  night  people  come  suddenly  out  of 
the  darkness  into  the  circle  of  light  under  a  street  lamp. 
Above  there  was  the  light  of  day  forcing  itself  slowly 
into  the  fog.  The  fog  moved  slowly.  The  tops  of 
trees  moved  slowly.  Under  the  trees  the  fog  was 

102 


BROTHERS  IO3 

dense,  purple.  It  was  like  smoke  lying  in  the  streets 
of  a  factory  town. 

An  old  man  came  up  to  me  in  the  fog.  I  know  him 
well.  The  people  here  call  him  insane.  "He  is  a 
little  cracked,"  they  say.  He  lives  alone  in  a  little 
house  buried  deep  in  the  forest  and  has  a  small  dog 
he  carries  always  in  his  arms.  On  many  mornings 
I  have  met  him  walking  on  the  road  and  he  has  told 
me  of  men  and  women  who  are  his  brothers  and 
sisters,  his  cousins,  aunts,  uncles,  brothers-in-law. 
It  is  confusing.  He  cannot  draw  close  to  people 
near  at  hand  so  he  gets  hold  of  a  name  out  of  a 
newspaper  and  his  mind  plays  with  it.  On  one  morn 
ing  he  told  me  he  was  a  cousin  to  the  man  named  Cox 
who  at  the  time  when  I  write  is  a  candidate  for  the 
presidency.  On  another  morning  he  told  me  that 
Caruso  the  singer  had  married  a  woman  who  was  his 
sister-in-law.  "She  is  my  wife's  sister,"  he  said,  hold 
ing  the  little  dog  close.  His  grey  watery  eyes  looked 
appealing  up  to  me.  He  wanted  me  to  believe.  "My 
wife  was  a  sweet  slim  girl,"  he  declared.  "We  lived 
together  in  a  big  house  and  in  the  morning  walked 
about  arm  in  arm.  Now  her  sister  has  married 
Caruso  the  singer.  He  is  of  my  family  now." 

As  someone  had  told  me  the  old  man  had  never 
married,  I  went  away  wondering.  One  morning  in 
early  September  I  came  upon  him  sitting  under  a  tree 
beside  a  path  near  his  house.  The  dog  barked  at  me 


104      THE     TRIUMPH      OF     THE     EGG 

and  then  ran  and  crept  into  his  arms.  At  that  time 
the  Chicago  newspapers  were  filled  with  the  story  of 
a  millionaire  who  had  got  into  trouble  with  his  wife 
because  of  an  intimacy  with  an  actress.  The  old  man 
told  me  that  the  actress  was  his  sister.  He  is  sixty 
years  old  and  the  actress  whose  story  appeared  in  the 
newspapers  is  twenty  but  he  spoke  of  their  childhood 
together.  "You  would  not  realize  it  to  see  us  now 
but  we  were  poor  then,"  he  said.  "It's  true.  We 
lived  in  a  little  house  on  the  side  of  a  hill.  Once  when 
there  was  a  storm,  the  wind  nearly  swept  our  house 
away.  How  the  wind  blew!  Our  father  was  a  car 
penter  and  he  built  strong  houses  for  other  people 
but  our  own  house  he  did  not  build  very  strong!"  He 
shook  his  head  sorrowfully.  "My  sister  the  actress 
has  got  into  trouble.  Our  house  is  not  built  very 
strongly,"  he  said  as  I  went  away  along  the  path. 
*  *  * 

For  a  month,  two  months,  the  Chicago  newspapers, 
that  are  delivered  every  morning  in  our  village,  have 
been  filled  with  the  story  of  a  murder.  A  man  there 
has  murdered  his  wife  and  there  seems  no  reason  for 
the  deed.  The  tale  runs  something  like  this — 

The  man,  who  is  now  on  trial  in  the  courts  and  will 
no  doubt  be  hanged,  worked  in  a  bicycle  factory  where 
he  was  a  foreman  and  lived  with  his  wife  and  his 
wife's  mother  in  an  apartment  in  Thirty-second  Street. 
He  loved  a  girl  who  worked  in  the  office  of  the  fac- 


BROTHERS  IO5 

tory  where  he  was  employed.  She  came  from  a  town 
in  Iowa  and  when  she  first  came  to  the  city  lived  with 
her  aunt  who  has  since  died.  To  the  foreman,  a 
heavy  stolid  looking  man  with  grey  eyes,  she  seemed 
the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the  world.  Her  desk 
was  by  a  window  at  an  angle  of  the  factory,  a  sort  of 
wing  of  the  building,  and  the  foreman,  down  in  the 
shop  had  a  desk  by  another  window.  He  sat  at  his 
desk  making  out  sheets  containing  the  record  of  the 
work  done  by  each  man  in  his  department.  When 
he  looked  up  he  could  see  the  girl  sitting  at  work  at 
her  desk.  The  notion  got  into  his  head  that  she  was 
peculiarly  lovely.  He  did  not  think  of  trying  to  draw 
close  to  her  or  of  winning  her  love.  He  looked  at 
her  as  one  might  look  at  a  star  or  across  a  country  of 
low  hills  in  October  when  the  leaves  of  the  trees  are 
all  red  and  yellow  gold.  "She  is  a  pure,  virginal 
thing,"  he  thought  vaguely.  "What  can  she  be  think 
ing  about  as  she  sits  there  by  the  window  at  work." 
In  fancy  the  foreman  took  the  girl  from  Iowa 
home  with  him  to  his  apartment  in  Thirty-second 
Street  and  into  the  presence  of  his  wife  and  his 
mother-in-law.  All  day  in  the  shop  and  during  the 
evening  at  home  he  carried  her  figure  about  with  him 
in  his  mind.  As  he  stood  by  a  window  in  his  apart 
ment  and  looked  out  toward  the  Illinois  Central  rail 
road  tracks  and  beyond  the  tracks  to  the  lake,  the 
girl  was  there  beside  him.  Down  below  women 


106      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

walked  in  the  street  and  in  every  woman  he  saw  there 
was  something  of  the  Iowa  girl.  One  woman  walked 
as  she  did,  another  made  a  gesture  with  her  hand  that 
reminded  of  her.  All  the  women  he  saw  except  his 
wife  and  his  mother-in-law  were  like  the  girl  he  had 
taken  inside  himself. 

The  two  women  in  his  own  house  puzzled  and  con 
fused  him.  They  became  suddenly  unlovely  and  com 
monplace.  His  wife  in  particular  was  like  some 
strange  unlovely  growth  that  had  attached  itself  to 
his  body. 

In  the  evening  after  the  day  at  the  factory  he  went 
home  to  his  own  place  and  had  dinner.  He  had  al 
ways  been  a  silent  man  and  when  he  did  not  talk  no 
one  minded.  After  dinner  he  with  his  wife  went  to 
a  picture  show.  There  were  two  children  and  his  wife 
expected  another.  They  came  into  the  apartment  and 
sat  down.  The  climb  up  two  flights  of  stairs  had 
wearied  his  wife.  She  sat  in  a  chair  beside  her  mother 
groaning  with  weariness. 

The  mother-in-law  was  the  soul  of  goodness.  She 
took  the  place  of  a  servant  in  the  home  and  got  no 
pay.  When  her  daughter  wanted  to  go  to  a  picture 
show  she  waved  her  hand  and  smiled.  "Go  on,"  she 
said.  "I  don't  want  to  go.  I'd  rather  sit  here."  She 
got  a  book  and  sat  reading.  The  little  boy  of  nine 
awoke  and  cried.  He  wanted  to  sit  on  the  po-po. 
The  mother-in-law  attended  to  that. 


BROTHERS  107 

After  the  man  and  his  wife  came  home  the  three 
people  sat  in  silence  for  an  hour  or  two  before  bed 
time.  The  man  pretended  to  read  a  newspaper.  He 
looked  at  his  hands.  Although  he  had  washed  them 
carefully  grease  from  the  bicycle  frames  left  dark 
stains  under  the  nails.  He  thought  of  the  Iowa  girl 
and  of  her  white  quick  hands  playing  over  the  keys  of 
a  typewriter.  He  felt  dirty  and  uncomfortable. 

The  girl  at  the  factory  knew  the  foreman  had 
fallen  in  love  with  her  and  the  thought  excited  her  a 
little.  Since  her  aunt's  death  she  had  gone  to  live  in 
a  rooming  house  and  had  nothing  to  do  in  the  evening. 
Although  the  foreman  meant  nothing  to  her  she  could 
in  a  way  use  him.  To  her  he  became  a  symbol.  Some 
times  he  came  into  the  office  and  stood  for  a  moment 
by  the  door.  His  large  hands  were  covered  with  black 
grease.  She  looked  at  him  without  seeing.  In  his 
place  in  her  imagination  stood  a  tall  slender  young 
man.  Of  the  foreman  she  saw  only  the  grey  eyes  that 
began  to  burn  with  a  strange  fire.  The  eyes  expressed 
eagerness,  a  humble  and  devout  eagerness.  In  the 
presence  of  a  man  with  such  eyes  she  felt  she  need  not 
be  afraid. 

She  wanted  a  lover  who  would  come  to  her  with 
such  a  look  in  his  eyes.  Occasionally,  perhaps  once  in 
two  weeks,  she  stayed  a  little  late  at  the  office,  pre 
tending  to  have  work  that  must  be  finished.  Through 
the  window  she  could  see  the  foreman  waiting.  When 


108      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

everyone  had  gone  she  closed  her  desk  and  went  into 
the  street.  At  the  same  moment  the  foreman  came 
out  at  the  factory  door. 

They  walked  together  along  the  street  a  half 
dozen  blocks  to  where  she  got  aboard  her  car.  The 
factory  was  in  a  place  called  South  Chicago  and  as 
they  went  along  evening  was  coming  on.  The  streets 
were  lined  with  small  unpainted  frame  houses  and 
dirty  faced  children  ran  screaming  in  the  dusty  road 
way.  They  crossed  over  a  bridge.  Two  abandoned 
coal  barges  lay  rotting  in  the  stream. 

He  went  by  her  side  walking  heavily  and  striving 
to  conceal  his  hands.  He  had  scrubbed  them  carefully 
before  leaving  the  factory  but  they  seemed  to  him 
like  heavy  dirty  pieces  of  waste  matter  hanging  at  his 
side.  Their  walking  together  happened  but  a  few 
times  and  during  one  summer.  "It's  hot,"  he  said. 
He  never  spoke  to  her  of  anything  but  the  weather. 
"It's  hot,"  he  said.  "I  think  it  may  rain." 

She  dreamed  of  the  lover  who  would  some  time 
come,  a  tall  fair  young  man,  a  rich  man  owning  houses 
and  lands.  The  workingman  who  walked  beside  her 
had  nothing  to  do  with  her  conception  of  love.  She 
walked  with  him,  stayed  at  the  office  until  the  others 
had  gone  to  walk  unobserved  with  him  because  of  his 
eyes,  because  of  the  eager  thing  in  his  eyes  that  was 
at  the  same  time  humble,  that  bowed  down  to  her.  In 
his  presence  there  was  no  danger,  could  be  no  danger. 


BROTHERS  109 

He  would  never  attempt  to  approach  too  closely,  to 
touch  her  with  his  hands.  She  was  safe  with  him. 

In  his  apartment  in  the  evening  the  man  sat  under 
the  electric  light  with  his  wife  and  his  .mother-in-law. 
In  the  next  room  his  two  children  were  asleep.  In  a 
short  time  his  wife  would  have  another  child.  He 
had  been  with  her  to  a  picture  show  and  in  a  short 
time  they  would  get  into  bed  together. 

He  would  lie  awake  thinking,  would  hear  the  creak 
ing  of  the  springs  of  a  bed  where,  in  another  room,  his 
mother-in-law  was  crawling  between  the  sheets.  Life 
was  too  intimate.  He  would  lie  awake  eager,  expec 
tant — expecting,  what? 

Nothing.  Presently  one  of  the  children  would  cry.  It 
wanted  to  get  out  of  bed  and  sit  on  the  po-po.  Nothing 
strange  or  unusual  or  lovely  would  or  could  happen. 
Life  was  too  close,  intimate.  Nothing  that  could  hap 
pen  in  the  apartment  could  in  any  way  stir  him;  the 
things  his  wife  might  say,  her  occasional  half-hearted 
outbursts  of  passion,  the  goodness  of  his  mother-in-law 
who  did  the  work  of  a  servant  without  pay — 

He  sat  in  the  apartment  under  the  electric  light 
pretending  to  read  a  newspaper — thinking.  He  looked 
at  his  hands.  They  were  large,  shapeless,  a  working- 
man's  hands. 

The  figure  of  the  girl  from  Iowa  walked  about  the 
room.  With  her  he  went  out  of  the  apartment  and 
walked  in  silence  through  miles  of  streets.  It  was  not 


110      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

necessary  to  say  words.  He  walked  with  her  by  a  sea, 
along  the  crest  of  a  mountain.  The  night  was  clear 
and  silent  and  the  stars  shone.  She  also  was  a  star. 
It  was  not  necessary  to  say  words. 

Her  eyes  were  like  stars  and  her  lips  were  like  soft 
hills  rising  out  of  dim,  star  lit  plains.  "She  is  unat 
tainable,  she  is  far  off  like  the  stars,"  he  thought. 
"She  is  unattainable  like  the  stars  but  unlike  the  stars 
she  breathes,  she  lives,  like  myself  she  has  being." 

One  evening,  some  six  weeks  ago,  the  man  who 
worked  as  foreman  in  the  bicycle  factory  killed  his 
wife  and  he  is  now  in  the  courts  being  tried  for  mur 
der.  Every  day  the  newspapers  are  filled  with  the 
story.  On  the  evening  of  the  murder  he  had  taken 
his  wife  as  usual  to  a  picture  show  and  they  started 
home  at  nine.  In  Thirty-second  Street,  at  a  corner 
near  their  apartment  building,  the  figure  of  a  man 
darted  suddenly  out  of  an  alleyway  and  then  darted 
back  again.  The  incident  may  have  put  the  idea  of 
killing  his  wife  into  the  man's  head. 

They  got  to  the  entrance  to  the  apartment  building 
and  stepped  into  a  dark  hallway.  Then  quite  suddenly 
and  apparently  without  thought  the  man  took  a  knife 
out  of  his  pocket.  "Suppose  that  man  who  darted 
into  the  alleyway  had  intended  to  kill  us,"  he  thought. 
Opening  the  knife  he  whirled  about  and  struck  at  his 
wife.  He  struck  twice,  a  dozen  times — madly.  There 
was  a  scream  and  his  wife's  body  fell. 


BROTHERS  III 

The  janitor  had  neglected  to  light  the  gas  in  the 
lower  hallway.  Afterwards,  the  foreman  decided, 
that  was  the  reason  he  did  it,  that  and  the  fact  that 
the  dark  slinking  figure  of  a  man  darted  out  of  an 
alleyway  and  then  darted  back  again.  "Surely,"  he 
told  himself,  "I  could  never  have  done  it  had  the  gas 
been  lighted." 

He  stood  in  the  hallway  thinking.  His  wife  was 
dead  and  with  her  had  died  her  unborn  child.  There 
was  a  sound  of  doors  opening  in  the  apartments  above. 
For  several  minutes  nothing  happened.  His  wife  and 
her  unborn  child  were  dead — that  was  all. 

He  ran  upstairs  thinking  quickly.  In  the  darkness 
on  the  lower  stairway  he  had  put  the  knife  back  into 
his  pocket  and,  as  it  turned  out  later,  there  was  no 
blood  on  his  hands  or  on  his  clothes.  The  knife  he 
later  washed  carefully  in  the  bathroom,  when  the  ex 
citement  had  died  down  a  little.  He  told  everyone 
the  same  story.  "There  has  been  a  holdup,"  he  ex 
plained.  "A  man  came  slinking  out  of  an  alleyway 
and  followed  me  and  my  wife  home.  He  followed 
us  into  the  hallway  of  the  building  and  there  was  no 
light.  The  janitor  has  neglected  to  light  the  gas." 
Well — there  had  been  a  struggle  and  in  the  darkness 
his  wife  had  been  killed.  He  could  not  tell  how  it  had 
happened.  "There  was  no  light.  The  janitor  has 
neglected  to  light  the  gas,"  he  kept  saying. 

For  a  day  or  two  they  did  not  question  him  spe- 


112      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

cially  and  he  had  time  to  get  rid  of  the  knife.  He 
took  a  long  walk  and  threw  it  away  into  the  river  in 
South  Chicago  where  the  two  abandoned  coal  barges 
lay  rotting  under  the  bridge,  the  bridge  he  had  crossed 
when  on  the  summer  evenings  he  walked  to  the  street 
car  with  the  girl  who  was  virginal  and  pure,  who  was 
far  off  and  unattainable,  like  a  star  and  yet  not  like 
a  star. 

And  then  he  was  arrested  and  right  away  he  con 
fessed — told  everything.  He  said  he  did  not  know 
why  he  killed  his  wife  and  was  careful  to  say  nothing 
of  the  girl  at  the  office.  The  newspapers  tried  to 
discover  the  motive  for  the  crime.  They  are  still 
trying.  Someone  had  seen  him  on  the  few  evenings 
when  he  walked  with  the  girl  and  she  was  dragged 
into  the  affair  and  had  her  picture  printed  in  the 
papers.  That  has  been  annoying  for  her  as  of  course 
she  has  been  able  to  prove  she  had  nothing  to  do  with 
the  man. 

*       *       * 

Yesterday  morning  a  heavy  fog  lay  over  our  vil 
lage  here  at  the  edge  of  the  city  and  I  went  for  a  long 
walk  in  the  early  morning.  As  I  returned  out  of  the 
lowlands  into  our  hill  country  I  met  the  old  man 
whose  family  has  so  many  and  such  strange  ramifica 
tions.  For  a  time  he  walked  beside  me  holding  the 
little  dog  in  his  arms.  It  was  cold  and  the  dog  whined 
and  shivered.  In  the  fog  the  old  man's  face  was  in 
distinct.  It  moved  slowly  back  and  forth  with  the 


BROTHERS 

fog  banks  of  the  upper  air  and  with  the  tops  of  trees. 
He  spoke  of  the  man  who  has  killed  his  wife  and 
whose  name  is  being  shouted  in  the  pages  of  the  city 
newspapers  that  come  to  our  village  each  morning. 
As  he  walked  beside  me  he  launched  into  a  long  tale 
concerning  a  life  he  and  his  brother,  who  has  now 
become  a  murderer,  once  lived  together.  "He  is 
my  brother,"  he  said  over  and  over,  shaking  his  head. 
He  seemed  afraid  I  would  not  believe.  There  was  a 
fact  that  must  be  established.  "We  were  boys  to 
gether  that  man  and  I,"  he  began  again.  "You  see 
we  played  together  in  a  barn  back  of  our  father's 
house.  Our  father  went  away  to  sea  in  a  ship.  That 
is  the  way  our  names  became  confused.  You  under 
stand  that.  We  have  different  names,  but  we  are 
brothers.  We  had  the  same  father.  We  played  to 
gether  in  a  barn  back  of  our  father's  house.  For 
hours  we  lay  together  in  the  hay  in  the  barn  and  it 
was  warm  there." 

In  the  fog  the  slender  body  of  the  old  man  became 
like  a  little  gnarled  tree.  Then  it  became  a  thing 
suspended  in  air.  It  swung  back  and  forth  like  a 
body  hanging  on  the  gallows.  The  face  beseeched  me 
to  believe  the  story  the  lips  were  trying  to  tell.  In 
my  mind  everything  concerning  the  relationship  of 
men  and  women  became  confused,  a  muddle.  The 
spirit  of  the  man  who  had  killed  his  wife  came  into 
the  body  of  the  little  old  man  there  by  the  roadside. 


114      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

It  was  striving  to  tell  me  the  story  it  would  never  be 
able  to  tell  in  the  court  room  in  the  city,  in  the  pres 
ence  of  the  judge.  The  whole  story  of  mankind's 
loneliness,  of  the  effort  to  reach  out  to  unattainable 
beauty  tried  to  get  itself  expressed  from  the  lips  of  a 
mumbling  old  man,  crazed  with  loneliness,  who  stood 
by  the  side  of  a  country  road  on  a  foggy  morning  hold 
ing  a  little  dog  in  his  arms. 

The  arms  of  the  old  man  held  the  dog  so  closely 
that  it  began  to  whine  with  pain.  A  sort  of  convul 
sion  shook  his  body.  The  soul  seemed  striving  to 
wrench  itself  out  of  the  body,  to  fly  away  through  the 
fog,  down  across  the  plain  to  the  city,  to  the  singer, 
the  politician,  the  millionaire,  the  murderer,  to  its 
brothers,  cousins,  sisters,  down  in  the  city.  The  in 
tensity  of  the  old  man's  desire  was  terrible  and  in 
sympathy  my  body  began  to  tremble.  His  arms 
tightened  about  the  body  of  the  little  dog  so  that  it 
cried  with  pain.  I  stepped  forward  and  tore  the 
arms  away  and  the  dog  fell  to  the  ground  and  lay 
whining.  No  doubt  it  had  been  injured.  Perhaps 
ribs  had  been  crushed.  The  old  man  stared  at  the 
dog  lying  at  his  feet  as  in  the  hallway  of  the  apart 
ment  building  the  worker  from  the  bicycle  factory  had 
stared  at  his  dead  wife.  "We  are  brothers,"  he  said 
again.  "We  have  different  names  but  we  are  brothers. 
Our  father  you  understand  went  off  to  sea." 
*  *  * 


BROTHERS  115 

I  am  sitting  in  my  house  in  the  country  and  it  rains. 
Before  my  eyes  the  hills  fall  suddenly  away  and  there 
are  the  flat  plains  and  beyond  the  plains  the  city.  An 
hour  ago  the  old  man  of  the  house  in  the  forest  went 
past  my  door  and  the  little  dog  was  not  with  him.  It 
may  be  that  as  we  talked  in  the  fog  he  crushed  the 
life  out  of  his  companion.  It  may  be  that  the  dog  like 
the  workman's  wife  and  her  unborn  child  is  now  dead. 
The  leaves  of  the  trees  that  line  the  road  before  my 
window  are  falling  like  rain — the  yellow,  red  and 
golden  leaves  fall  straight  down,  heavily.  The  rain 
beat  them  brutally  down.  They  are  denied  a  last 
golden  flash  across  the  sky.  In  October  leaves  should 
be  carried  away,  out  over  the  plains,  in  a  wind.  They 
should  go  dancing  away. 


THE  DOOR  OF  THE  TRAP 

VJflNIFRED  WALKER  understood  some  things 
clearly  enough.  She  understood  that  when  a 
man  is  put  behind  iron  bars  he  is  in  prison.  Marriage 
was  marriage  to  her. 

It  was  that  to  her  husband  Hugh  Walker,  too,  as 
he  found  out.  Still  he  didn't  understand.  It  might 
have  been  better  had  he  understood,  then  he  might 
at  least  have  found  himself.  He  didn't.  After  his 
marriage  five  or  six  years  passed  like  shadows  of 
wind  blown  trees  playing  on  a  wall.  He  was  in  a 
drugged,  silent  state.  In  the  morning  and  evening 
every  day  he  saw  his  wife.  Occasionally  something 
happened  within  him  and  he  kissed  her.  Three  chil 
dren  were  born.  He  taught  mathematics  in  the  little 
college  at  Union  Valley,  Illinois,  and  waited. 

For  what?  He  began  to  ask  himself  that  question. 
It  came  to  him  at  first  faintly  like  an  echo.  Then  it 
became  an  insistent  question.  "I  want  answering," 
the  question  seemed  to  say.  "Stop  fooling  along. 
Give  your  attention  to  me." 

Hugh  walked  through  the  streets  of  the  Illinois 
town.  "Well,  I'm  married.  I  have  children,"  he 

muttered. 

116 


THE  DOOR   OF  THE  TRAP    117 

He  went  home  to  his  own  house.  He  did  not  have 
to  live  within  his  income  from  the  little  college,  and 
so  the  house  was  rather  large  and  comfortably  fur 
nished.  There  was  a  negro  woman  who  took  care  of 
the  children  and  another  who  cooked  and  did  the  house 
work.  One  of  the  women  was  in  the  habit  of  crooning 
low  soft  negro  songs.  Sometimes  Hugh  stopped  at  the 
house  door  and  listened.  He  could  see  through  the 
glass  in  the  door  into  the  room  where  his  family  was 
gathered.  Two  children  played  with  blocks  on  the 
floor.  His  wife  sat  sewing.  The  old  negress  sat  in  a 
rocking  chair  with  his  youngest  child,  a  baby,  in  her 
arms.  The  whole  room  seemed  under  the  spell  of  the 
crooning  voice.  Hugh  fell  under  the  spell.  He 
waited  in  silence.  The  voice  carried  him  far  away 
somewhere,  into  forests,  along  the  edges  of  swamps. 
There  was  nothing  very  definite  about  his  thinking. 
He  would  have  given  a  good  deal  to  be  able  to  be 
definite. 

He  went  inside  the  house.  "Well,  here  I  am,"  his 
mind  seemed  to  say,  "here  I  am.  This  is  my  house, 
these  are  my  children." 

He  looked  at  his  wife  Winifred.  She  had  grown 
a  little  plump  since  their  marriage.  "Perhaps  it  is 
the  mother  in  her  coming  out,  she  has  had  three  chil 
dren,"  he  thought. 

The  crooning  old  negro  woman  went  away,  taking 
the  youngest  child  with  her.  He  and  Winifred  held 


Il8      THE     TRIUMPH      OF     THE      EGG 

a  fragmentary  conversation.  "Have  you  been  well 
to-day,  dear?"  she  asked.  "Yes,"  he  answered. 

If  the  two  older  children  were  intent  on  their  play 
his  chain  of  thought  was  not  broken.  His  wife  never 
broke  it  as  the  children  did  when  they  came  running 
to  pull  and  tear  at  him.  Throughout  the  early  eve 
ning,  after  the  children  went  to  bed,  the  surface  of  the 
shell  of  him  was  not  broken  at  all.  A  brother  college 
professor  and  his  wife  came  in  or  he  and  Winifred 
went  to  a  neighbor's  house.  There  was  talk.  Even 
when  he  and  Winifred  were  alone  together  in  the 
house  there  was  talk.  "The  shutters  are  becoming 
loose,"  she  said.  The  house  was  an  old  one  and  had 
green  shutters.  They  were  continually  coming  loose 
and  at  night  blew  back  and  forth  on  their  hinges 
making  a  loud  banging  noise. 

Hugh  made  some  remark.  He  said  he  would  see  a 
carpenter  about  the  shutters.  Then  his  mind  began 
playing  away,  out  of  his  wife's  presence,  out  of  the 
house,  in  another  sphere.  "I  am  a  house  and  my 
shutters  are  loose,"  his  mind  said.  He  thought  of 
himself  as  a  living  thing  inside  a  shell,  trying  to  break 
out.  To  avoid  distracting  conversation  he  got  a  book 
and  pretended  to  read.  When  his  'wife  had  also 
begun  to  read  he  watched  her  closely,  intently.  Her 
nose  was  so  and  so  and  her  eyes  so  and  so.  She  had 
a  little  habit  with  her  hands.  When  she  became  lost 
in  the  pages  of  a  book  the  hand  crept  up  to  her  cheek, 


THE   DOOR   OF   THE   TRAP     119 

touched  it  and  then  was  put  down  again.  Her  hair 
was  not  in  very  good  order.  Since  her  marriage  and 
the  coming  of  the  children  she  had  not  taken  good 
care  of  her  body.  When  she  read  her  body  slumped 
down  in  the  chair.  It  became  bag-like.  She  was  one 
whose  race  had  been  run. 

Hugh's  mind  played  all  about  the  figure  of  his  wife 
but  did  not  really  approach  the  woman  who  sat  be 
fore  him.  It  was  so  with  his  children.  Sometimes, 
just  for  a  moment,  they  were  living  things  to  him, 
things  as  alive  as  his  own  body.  Then  for  long  periods 
they  seemed  to  go  far  away  like  the  crooning  voice  of 
the  negress. 

It  was  odd  that  the  negress  was  always  real  enough. 
He  felt  an  understanding  existed  between  himself  and 
the  negress.  She  was  outside  his  life.  He  could  look 
at  her  as  at  a  tree.  Sometimes  in  the  evening  when  she 
had  been  putting  the  children  to  bed  in  the  upper  part 
of  the  house  and  when  he  sat  with  a  book  in  his  hand 
pretending  to  read,  the  old  black  woman  came  softly 
through  the  room,  going  toward  the  kitchen.  She 
did  not  look  at  Winifred,  but  at  Hugh.  He  thought 
there  was  a  strange,  soft  light  in  her  old  eyes.  "I 
understand  you,  my  son,"  her  eyes  seemed  to  say. 

Hugh  was  determined  to  get  his  life  cleaned  up  if 
he  could  manage  it.  "All  right,  then,"  he  said,  as 
though  speaking  to  a  third  person  in  the  room.  He 
was  quite  sure  there  was  a  third  person  there  and  that 


120      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

the  third  person  was  within  himself,  inside  his  body. 
He  addressed  the  third  person. 

"Well,  there  is  this  woman,  this  person  I  married, 
she  has  the  air  of  something  accomplished,"  he  said, 
as  though  speaking  aloud.  Sometimes  it  almost 
seemed  to  him  he  had  spoken  aloud  and  he  looked 
quickly  and  sharply  at  his  wife.  She  continued  read 
ing,  lost  in  her  book.  "That  may  be  it,"  he  went  on. 
"She  has  had  these  children.  They  are  accomplished 
facts  to  her.  They  came  out  of  her  body,  not  out  of 
mine.  Her  body  has  done  something.  Now  it  rests. 
If  she  is  becoming  a  little  bag-like,  that's  all  right." 

He  got  up  and  making  some  trivial  excuse  got  out 
of  the  room  and  out  of  the  house.  In  his  youth  and 
young  manhood  the  long  periods  of  walking  straight 
ahead  through  the  country,  that  had  come  upon  him 
like  visitations  of  some  recurring  disease,  had  helped. 
Walking  solved  nothing.  It  only  tired  his  body,  but 
when  his  body  was  tired  he  could  sleep.  After  many 
days  of  walking  and  sleeping}  something  occurred. 
The  reality  of  life  was  in  some  queer  way  re-estab 
lished  in  his  mind.  Some  little  thing  happened.  A 
man  walking  in  the  road  before  him  threw  a  stone  at 
a  dog  that  ran  barking  out  of  a  farm-house.  It  was 
evening  perhaps,  and  he  walked  in  a  country  of  low 
hills.  Suddenly  he  came  out  upon  the  top  of  one  of 
the  hills.  Before  him  the  road  dipped  down  into 
darkness  but  to  the  west,  across  fields,  there  was  a 


THE   DOOR   OF   THE   TRAP     121 

farm-house.  The  sun  had  gone  down,  but  a  faint 
glow  lit  the  western  horizon.  A  woman  came  out  of 
the  farmhouse  and  went  toward  a  barn.  He  could 
not  see  her  figure  distinctly.  She  seemed  to  be  carry 
ing  something,  no  doubt  a  milk  pail ;  she  was  going  to 
a  barn  to  milk  a  cow. 

The  man  in  the  road  who  had  thrown  the  stone  at 
the  farm  dog  had  turned  and  seen  Hugh  in  the  road 
behind  him.  He  was  a  little  ashamed  of  having  been 
afraid  of  the  dog.  For  a  moment  he  seemed  about 
to  wait  and  speak  to  Hugh,  and  then  was  overcome 
with  confusion  and  hurried  away.  He  was  a  middle- 
aged  man,  but  quite  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  he 
looked  like  a  boy. 

As  for  the  farm  woman,  dimly  seen  going  toward 
a  distant  barn,  she  also  stopped  and  looked  toward 
him.  It  was  impossible  she  should  have  seen 
him.  She  was  dressed  in  white  and  he  could  see  her 
but  dimly  against  the  blackish  green  of  the  trees  of 
an  orchard  behind  her.  Still  she  stood  looking  and 
seemed  to  look  directly  into  his  eyes.  He  had  a  queer 
sensation  of  her  having  been  lifted  by  an  unseen  hand 
and  brought  to  him.  It  seemed  to  him  he  knew  all 
about  her  life,  all  about  the  life  of  the  man  who  had 
thrown  the  stone  at  the  dog. 

In  his  youth,  when  life  had  stepped  out  of  his  grasp, 
Hugh  had  walked  and  walked  until  several  such 
things  had  occurred  and  then  suddenly  he  was  all 


122       THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

right  again  and  could  again  work  and  live  among  men. 

After  his  marriage  and  after  such  an  evening  at 
home  he  started  walking  rapidly  as  soon  as  he  left 
the  house.  As  quickly  as  possible  he  got  out  of  town 
and  struck  out  along  a  road  that  led  over  the  rolling 
prairie.  "Well,  I  can't  walk  for  days  and  days  as  I 
did  once,"  he  thought.  "There  are  certain  facts  in 
life  and  I  must  face  facts.  Winifred,  my  wife,  is  a 
fact,  and  my  children  are  facts.  I  must  get  my  fingers 
on  facts.  I  must  live  by  them  and  with  them.  It's 
the  way  lives  are  lived." 

Hugh  got  out  of  town  and  on  to  a  road  that  ran 
between  cornfields.  He  was  an  athletic  looking  man 
and  wore  loose  fitting  clothes.  He  went  along  dis 
traught  and  puzzled.  In  a  way  he  felt  like  a  man 
capable  of  taking  a  man's  place  in  life  and  in  another 
way  he  didn't  at  all. 

The  country  spread  out,  wide,  in  all  directions.  It 
was  always  night  when  he  walked  thus  and  he  could 
not  see,  but  the  realization  of  distances  was  always 
with  him.  "Everything  goes  on  and  on  but  I  stand 
still,"  he  thought.  He  had  been  a  professor  in  the 
little  college  for  six  years.  Young  men  and  women 
had  come  into  a  room  and  he  had  taught  them.  It 
was  nothing.  Words  and  figures  had  been  played 
with.  An  effort  had  been  made  to  arouse  minds. 

For  what? 

There  was  the  old  question,  always  coming  back, 


THE   DOOR   OF   THE   TRAP     123 

always  wanting  answering  as  a  little  animal  wants 
food.  Hugh  gave  up  trying  to  answer.  He  walked 
rapidly,  trying  to  grow  physically  tired.  He  made 
his  mind  attend  to  little  things  in  the  effort  to  forget 
distances.  One  night  he  got  out  of  the  road  and 
walked  completely  around  a  cornfield.  He  counted 
the  stalks  in  each  hill  of  corn  and  computed  the  num 
ber  of  stalks  in  a  whole  field.  "It  should  yield  twelve 
hundred  bushels  of  corn,  that  field/'  he  said  to  him 
self  dumbly,  as  though  it  mattered  to  him.  He  pulled 
a  little  handful  of  cornsilk  out  of  the  top  of  an  ear  of 
corn  and  played  with  it.  He  tried  to  fashion  himself 
a  yellow  moustache.  "I'd  be  quite  a  fellow  with  a 
trim  yellow  moustache,"  he  thought. 

One  day  in  his  class-room  Hugh  suddenly  began  to 
look  with  new  interest  at  his  pupils.  A  young  girl 
attracted  his  attention.  She  sat  beside  the  son  of  a 
Union  Valley  merchant  and  the  young  man  was  writ 
ing  something  on  the  back  of  a  book.  She  looked  at 
it  and  then  turned  her  head  away.  The  young  man 
waited. 

It  was  winter  and  the  merchant's  son  had  asked  the 
girl  to  go  with  him  to  a  skating  party.  Hugh,  how 
ever,  did  not  know  that.  He  felt  suddenly  old.  When 
he  asked  the  girl  a  question  she  was  confused.  Her 
voice  trembled. 

When  the  class  was  dismissed  an  amazing  thing 
happened.  He  asked  the  merchant's  son  to  stay  for 


124      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

a  moment  and,  when  the  two  were  alone  together  in 
the  room,  he  grew  suddenly  and  furiously  angry.  His, 
voice  was,  however,  cold  and  steady.  "Young  man," 
he  said,  "  you  do  not  come  into  this  room  to  write  on 
the  back  of  a  book  and  waste  your  time.  If  I  see  any 
thing  of  the  kind  again  I'll  do  something  you  don't 
expect.  I'll  throw  you  out  through  a  window,  that's 
what  I'll  do." 

Hugh  made  a  gesture  and  the  young  man  went 
away,  white  and  silent.  Hugh  felt  miserable.  For 
several  days  he  thought  about  the  girl  who  had  quite 
accidentally  attracted  his  attention.  "I'll  get  ac 
quainted  with  her.  I'll  find  out  about  her,"  he  thought. 

It  was  not  an  unusual  thing  for  professors  in  the 
college  at  Union  Valley  to  take  students  home  to  their 
houses.  Hugh  decided  he  would  take  the  girl  to  his 
home.  He  thought  about  it  several  days  and  late  one 
afternoon  saw  her  going  down  the  college  hill  ahead 
of  him. 

The  girl's  name  was  Mary  Cochran  and  she  had 
come  to  the  school  but  a  few  months  before  from  a 
place  called  Huntersburg,  Illinois,  no  doubt  just  such 
another  place  as  Union  Valley.  He  knew  nothing  of 
her  except  that  her  father  was  dead,  her  mother  too, 
perhaps.  He  walked  rapidly  down  the  hill  to  over 
take  her.  "Miss  Cochran,"  he  called,  and  was  sur 
prised  to  find  that  his  voice  trembled  a  little.  "What 
am  I  so  eager  about?"  he  asked  himself. 


THE   DOOR   OF   THE   TRAP     125 

A  new  life  began  in  Hugh  Walker's  house.  It  was 
good  for  the  man  to  have  some  one  there  who  did  not 
belong  to  him,  and  Winifred  Walker  and  the  children 
accepted  the  presence  of  the  girl.  Winifred  urged 
her  to  come  again.  She  did  come  several  times  a 
week. 

To  Mary  Cochran  it  was  comforting  to  be  in  the 
presence  of  a  family  of  children.  On  winter  after 
noons  she  took  Hugh's  two  sons  and  a  sled  and  went 
to  a  small  hill  near  the  house.  Shouts  arose.  Mary 
Cochran  pulled  the  sled  up  the  hill  and  the  children 
followed.  Then  they  all  came  tearing  down  together. 

The  girl,  developing  rapidly  into  womanhood, 
looked  upon  Hugh  Walker  as  something  that  stood 
completely  outside  her  own  life.  She  and  the  man 
who  had  become  suddenly  and  intensely  interested  in 
her  had  little  to  say  to  each  other  and  Winifred 
seemed  to  have  accepted  her  without  question  as  an 
addition  to  the  household.  Often  in  the  afternoon 
when  the  two  negro  women  were  busy  she  went  away 
leaving  the  two  older  children  in  Mary's  charge. 

It  was  late  afternoon  and  perhaps  Hugh  had 
walked  home  with  Mary  from  the  college.  In 
the  spring  he  worked  in  the  neglected  garden.  It  had 
been  plowed  and  planted,  but  he  took  a  hoe  and  rake 
and  puttered  about.  The  children  played  about  the 
house  with  the  college  girl.  Hugh  did  not  look  at 
them  but  at  her.  "She  is  one  of  the  world  of  people 


126      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

with  whom  I  live  and  with  whom  I  am  supposed  to 
work  here,"  he  thought.  "Unlike  Winifred  and  these 
children  she  does  not  belong  to  me.  I  could  go  to 
her  now,  touch  her  fingers,  look  at  her  and  then  go 
away  and  never  see  her  again." 

That  thought  was  a  comfort  to  the  distraught  man. 
In  the  evening  when  he  went  out  to  walk  the  sense  of 
distance  that  lay  all  about  him  did  not  tempt  him  to 
walk  and  walk,  going  half  insanely  forward  for  hours, 
trying  to  break  through  an  intangible  wall. 

He  thought  about  Mary  Cochran.  She  was  a  girl 
from  a  country  town.  She  must  be  like  millions  of 
American  girls.  He  wondered  what  went  on  in  her 
mind  as  she  sat  in  his  class-room,  as  she  walked  be 
side  him  along  the  streets  of  Union  Valley,  as  she 
played  with  the  children  in  the  yard  beside  his  house. 

In  the  winter,  when  in  the  growing  darkness  of  a 
late  afternoon  Mary  and  the  children  built  a  snow 
man  in  the  yard,  he  went  upstairs  and  stood  in  the 
darkness  to  look  out  a  window.  The  tall  straight 
figure  of  the  girl,  dimly  seen,  moved  quickly  about. 
"Well,  nothing  has  happened  to  her.  She  may  be 
anything  or  nothing.  Her  figure  is  like  a  young  tree 
that  has  not  borne  fruit,'*  he  thought.  He  went  away 
to  his  own  room  and  sat  for  a  long  time  in  the  dark 
ness.  That  night  when  he  left  the  house  for  his 
evening's  walk  he  did  not  stay  long  but  hurried  home 
and  went  to  his  own  room.  He  locked  the  door.  Un- 


THE   DOOR   OF   THE   TRAP     127 

consciously  he  did  not  want  Winifred  to  come  to  the 
door  and  disturb  his  thoughts.  Sometimes  she  did 
that. 

All  the  time  she  read  novels.  She  read  the  novels 
of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson.  When  she  had  read  them 
all  she  began  again. 

Sometimes  she  came  upstairs  and  stood  talking  by 
his  door.  She  told  some  tale,  repeated  some  wise 
saying  that  had  fallen  unexpectedly  from  the  lips  of 
the  children.  Occasionally  she  came  into  the  room 
and  turned  out  the  light.  There  was  a  couch  by  a 
window.  She  went  to  sit  on  the  edge  of  the  couch. 
Something  happened.  It  was  as  it  had  been  before 
their  marriage.  New  life  came  into  her  figure.  He 
also  went  to  sit  on  the  couch  and  she  put  up  her  hand 
and  touched  his  face. 

Hugh  did  not  want  that  to  happen  now.  He  stood 
within  the  room  for  a  moment  and  then  unlocked  the 
door  and  went  to  the  head  of  the  stairs.  "Be  quiet 
when  you  come  up,  Winifred.  I  have  a  headache  and 
am  going  to  try  to  sleep, "  he  lied. 

When  he  had  gone  back  to  his  own  room  and  locked 
the  door  again  he  felt  safe.  He  did  not  undress  but 
threw  himself  on  the  couch  and  turned  out  the 
light. 

He  thought  about  Mary  Cochran,  the  school  girl, 
but  was  sure  he  thought  about  her  in  a  quite  imper 
sonal  way.  She  was  like  the  woman  going  to  milk 


128      THE     TRIUMPH      OF     THE      EGG 

cows  he  had  seen  across  hills  when  he  was  a  young 
fellow  and  walked  far  and  wide  over  the  country  to 
cure  the  restlessness  in  himself.  In  his  life  she  was 
like  the  man  who  threw  the  stone  at  dog. 

"Well,  she  is  unformed;  she  is  like  a  young  tree,** 
he  told  himself  again.  "People  are  like  that.  They 
just  grow  up  suddenly  out  of  childhood.  It  will  hap 
pen  to  my  own  children.  My  little  Winifred  that  can 
not  yet  say  words  will  suddenly  be  like  this  girl.  I  have 
not  selected  her  to  think  about  for  any  particular 
reason.  For  some  reason  I  have  drawn  away  from 
life  and  she  has  brought  me  back.  It  might  have  hap 
pened  when  I  saw  a  child  playing  in  the  street  or  an 
old  man  going  up  a  stairway  into  a  house.  She  does 
not  belong  to  me.  She  will  go  away  out  of  my  sight. 
Winifred  and  the  children  will  stay  on  and  on  here  and 
I  will  stay  on  and  on.  We  are  imprisoned  by  the  fact 
that  we  belong  to  each  other.  This  Mary  Cochran 
is  free,  or  at  least  she  is  free  as  far  as  this  prison  is 
concerned.  No  doubt  she  will,  after  a  while,  make  a 
prison  of  her  own  and  live  in  it,  but  I  will  have  noth 
ing  to  do  with  the  matter.*1 

By  the  time  Mary  Cochran  was  in  her  third  year 
in  the  college  at  Union  Valley  she  had  become  almost 
a  fixture  in  the  Walker  household.  Still  she  did  not 
know  Hugh.  She  knew  the  children  better  than  he 
did,  perhaps  better  than  their  mother.  In  the  fall  she 
and  the  two  boys  went  to  the  woods  to  gather  nuts. 


THE   DOOR   OF   THE   TRAP     129 

In  the  winter  they  went  skating  on  a  little  pond  near 
the  house. 

Winifred  accepted  her  as  she  accepted  everything, 
the  service  of  the  two  negroes,  the  coming  of  the 
children,  the  habitual  silence  of  her  husband. 

And  then  quite  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  Hugh's 
silence,  that  had  lasted  all  through  his  married  life, 
was  broken  up.  He  walked  homeward  with  a  German 
who  had  the  chair  of  modern  languages  in  the  school 
and  got  into  a  violent  quarrel.  He  stopped  to  speak 
to  men  on  the  street.  When  he  went  to  putter  about 
in  the  garden  he  whistled  and  sang. 

One  afternoon  in  the  fall  he  came  home  and  found 
the  whole  family  assembled  in  the  living  room  of  the 
house.  The  children  were  playing  on  the  floor  and 
the  negress  sat  in  the  chair  by  the  window  with  his 
youngest  child  in  her  arms,  crooning  one  of  the  negro 
songs.  Mary  Cochran  was  there.  She  sat  reading  a 
book. 

Hugh  walked  directly  toward  her  and  looked  over 
her  shoulder.  At  that  moment  Winifred  came  into 
the  room.  He  reached  forward  and  snatched  the 
book  out  of  the  girl's  hands.  She  looked  up  startled. 
With  an  oath  he  threw  it  into  the  fire  that  burned  in 
an  open  grate  at  the  side  of  the  room.  A  flood  of 
words  ran  from  him.  He  cursed  books  and  people 
and  schools.  "Damn  it  all,"  he  said.  "What  makes 
you  want  to  read  about  life?  What  makes  people 


130      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

want  to  think  about  life?  Why  don't  they  live ?  Why 
don't  they  leave  books  and  thoughts  and  schools 
alone?" 

He  turned  to  look  at  his  wife  who  had  grown  pale 
and  stared  at  him  with  a  queer  fixed  uncertain  stare. 
The  old  negro  woman  got  up  and  went  quickly  away. 
The  two  older  children  began  to  cry.  Hugh  was 
miserable.  He  looked  at  the  startled  girl  in  the  chair 
who  also  had  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  at  his  wife.  His 
fingers  pulled  nervously  at  his  coat.  To  the  two 
women  he  looked  like  a  boy  who  had  been  caught 
stealing  food  in  a  pantry.  "I  am  having  one  of  my 
silly  irritable  spells,"  he  said,  looking  at  his  wife  but 
in  reality  addressing  the  girl.  "You  see  I  am  more 
serious  than  I  pretend  to  be.  I  was  not  irritated  by 
your  book  but  by  something  else.  I  see  so  much  that 
can  be  done  in  life  and  I  do  so  little." 

He  went  upstairs  to  his  own  room  wondering  why 
he  had  lied  to  the  two  women,  why  he  continually  lied 
to  himself. 

Did  he  lie  to  himself?  He  tried  to  answer  the 
question  but  couldn't.  He  was  like  one  who  walks  in 
the  darkness  of  the  hallway  of  a  house  and  comes  to 
a  blank  wall.  The  old  desire  to  run  away  from  life, 
to  wear  himself  out  physically,  came  back  upon  him 
like  a  madness. 

For  a  long  time  he  stood  in  the  darkness  inside  his 
own  room.  The  children  stopped  crying  and  the  house 


THE   DOOR   OF   THE   TRAP     131 

became  quiet  again.  He  could  hear  his  wife's  voice 
speaking  softly  and  presently  the  back  door  of  the 
house  banged  and  he  knew  the  schoolgirl  had  gone 
away. 

Life  in  the  house  began  again.  Nothing  happened. 
Hugh  ate  his  dinner  in  silence  and  went  for  a  long 
walk.  For  two  weeks  Mary  Cochran  did  not  come  to 
his  house  and  then  one  day  he  saw  her  on  the  college 
grounds.  She  was  no  longer  one  of  his  pupils.  "Please 
do  not  desert  us  because  of  my  rudeness,"  he  said. 
The  girl  blushed  and  said  nothing.  When  he  got 
home  that  evening  she  was  in  the  yard  beside  the 
house  playing  with  the  children.  He  went  at  once  to 
his  own  room.  A  hard  smile  came  and  went  on  his 
face.  "She  isn't  like  a  young  tree  any  more.  She  is 
almost  like  Winifred.  She  is  almost  like  a  person 
who  belongs  here,  who  belongs  to  me  and  my  life," 
he  thought. 

Mary  Cochran's  visits  to  the  Walker  household 
came  to  an  end  very  abruptly.  One  evening  when 
Hugh  was  in  his  room  she  came  up  the  stairway  with 
the  two  boys.  She  had  dined  with  the  family  and 
was  putting  the  two  boys  into  their  beds.  It  was  a 
privilege  she  claimed  when  she  dined  with  the 
Walkers. 

Hugh  had  hurried  upstairs  immediately  after  din 
ing.  He  knew  where  his  wife  was.  She  was  down- 


132      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

stairs,  sitting  under  a  lamp,  reading  one  of  the  books 
of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

For  a  long  time  Hugh  could  hear  the  voices  of  his 
children  on  the  floor  above.  Then  the  thing  hap 
pened. 

Mary  Cochran  came  down  the  stairway  that  led 
past  the  door  of  his  room.  She  stopped,  turned  back 
and  climbed  the  stairs  again  to  the  room  above. 
Hugh  arose  and  stepped  into  the  hallway.  The 
schoolgirl  had  returned  to  the  children's  room  be 
cause  she  had  been  suddenly  overtaken  with  a  hunger 
to  kiss  Hugh's  oldest  boy,  now  a  lad  of  nine.  She 
crept  into  the  room  and  stood  for  a  long  time  looking 
at  the  two  boys,  who  unaware  of  her  presence  had 
gone  to  sleep.  Then  she  stole  forward  and  kissed  the 
boy  lightly.  When  she  went  out  of  the  room  Hugh 
stood  in  the  darkness  waiting  for  her.  He  took  hold 
of  her  hand  and  led  her  down  the  stairs  to  his  own 
room. 

She  was  terribly  afraid  and  her  fright  in  an  odd 
way  pleased  him.  "Well,"  he  whispered,  "you  can't 
understand  now  what's  going  to  happen  here  but  some 
day  you  will.  I'm  going  to  kiss  you  and  then  I'm 
going  to  ask  you  to  go  out  of  this  house  and  never 
come  back." 

He  held  the  girl  against  his  body  and  kissed  her 
upon  the  cheeks  and  lips.  When  he  led  her  to  the 
door  she  was  so  weak  with  fright  and  with  new, 


THE   DOOR   OF   THE   TRAP     133 

strange,  trembling  desires  that  she  could  with  diffi 
culty  make  her  way  down  the  stair  and  into  his  wife's 
presence.  "She  will  lie  now,"  he  thought,  and  heard 
her  voice  coming  up  the  stairs  like  an  echo  to  his 
thoughts.  "I  have  a  terrible  headache.  I  must  hurry 
home/'  he  heard  her  voice  saying.  The  voice  was  dull 
and  heavy.  It  was  not  the  voice  of  a  young  girl. 

"She  is  no  longer  like  a  young  tree,"  he  thought. 
He  was  glad  and  proud  of  what  he  had  done.  When 
he  heard  the  door  at  the  back  of  the  house  close  softly 
his  heart  jumped.  A  strange  quivering  light  came 
into  his  eyes.  "She  will  be  imprisoned  but  I  will  have 
nothing  to  do  with  it.  She  will  never  belong  to  me. 
My  hands  will  never  build  a  prison  for  her,"  he 
thought  with  grim  pleasure. 


THE  NEW  ENGLANDER 

TLJER  name  was  Elsie  Leander  and  her  girlhood 
was  spent  on  her  father's  farm  in  Vermont.  For 
several  generations  the  Leanders  had  all  lived  on  the 
same  farm  and  had  all  married  thin  women,  and  so 
she  was  thin.  The  farm  lay  in  the  shadow  of  a  moun 
tain  and  the  soil  was  not  very  rich.  From  the  begin 
ning  and  for  several  generations  there  had  been  a 
great  many  sons  and  few  daughters  in  the  family. 
The  sons  had  gone  west  or  to  New  York  City  and  the 
daughters  had  stayed  at  home  and  thought  such 
thoughts  as  come  to  New  England  women  who  see  the 
sons  of  their  fathers*  neighbors  slipping  away,  one  by 
one,  into  the  West. 

Her  father's  house  was  a  small  white  frame  affair 
and  when  you  went  out  at  the  back  door,  past  a  small 
barn  and  chicken  house,  you  got  into  a  path  that  ran 
up  the  side  of  a  hill  and  into  an  orchard.  The  trees 
were  all  old  and  gnarled.  At  the  back  of  the  orchard 
the  hill  dropped  away  and  bare  rocks  showed. 

Inside  the  fence  a  large  grey  rock  stuck  high  up  out 
of  the  ground.  As  Elsie  sat  with  her  back  to  the  rock, 
with  a  mangled  hillside  at  her  feet,  she  could  see  sev- 

134 


THE      NEW      ENGLANDER  135 

eral  large  mountains,  apparently  but  a  short  distance 
away,  and  between  herself  and  the  mountains  lay  many 
tiny  fields  surrounded  by  neatly  built  stone  wall's. 
Everywhere  rocks  appeared.  Large  ones,  too  heavy 
to  be  moved,  stuck  out  of  the  ground  in  the  centre  of 
the  fields.  The  fields  were  like  cups  filled  with  a  green 
liquid  that  turned  grey  in  the  fall  and  white  in  the 
winter.  The  mountains,  far  off  but  apparently  near 
at  hand,  were  like  giants  ready  at  any  moment  to  reach 
out  their  hands  and  take  the  cups  one  by  one  and  drink 
off  the  green  liquid.  The  large  rocks  in  the  fields  were 
like  the  thumbs  of  the  giants. 

Elsie  had  three  brothers,  born  before  her,  but 
they  had  all  gone  away.  Two  of  them  had  gone  to 
live  with  her  uncle  in  the  West  and  her  oldest  brother 
had  gone  to  New  York  City  where  he  had  married 
and  prospered.  All  through  his  youth  and  manhood 
her  father  had  worked  hard  and  had  lived  a  hard 
life,  but  his  son  in  New  York  City  had  begun  to  send 
money  home,  and  after  that  things  went  better.  He 
still  worked  every  day  about  the  barn  or  in  the  fields 
but  he  did  not  worry  about  the  future.  Elsie's  mother 
did  house  work  in  the  mornings  and  in  the  afternoons 
sat  in  a  rocking  chair  in  her  tiny  living  room  and 
thought  of  her  sons  while  she  crocheted  table  covers 
and  tidies  for  the  backs  of  chairs.  She  was  a  silent 
woman,  very  thin  and  with  very  thin  bony  hands. 
She  did  not  ease  herself  into  a  rocking  chair  but  sat 


136      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

down  and  got  up  suddenly,  and  when  she  crocheted 
her  back  was  as  straight  as  the  back  of  a  drill  sergeant. 
The  mother  rarely  spoke  to  the  daughter.  Some 
times  in  the  afternoons  as  the  younger  woman  went 
up  the  hillside  to  her  place  by  the  rock  at  the  back  of 
the  orchard,  her  father  came  out  of  the  barn  and 
stopped  her.  He  put  a  hand  on  her  shoulder  and 
asked  her  where  she  was  going.  "To  the  rock,"  she 
said  and  her  father  laughed.  His  laughter  was  like 
the  creaking  of  a  rusty  barn  door  hinge  and  the  hand 
he  had  laid  on  her  shoulders  was  thin  like  her  own 
hands  and  like  her  mother's  hands.  The  father  went 
into  the  barn  shaking  his  head.  "She's  like  her 
mother.  She  is  herself  like  a  rock,"  he  thought.  At 
the  head  of  the  path  that  led  from  the  house  to  the 
orchard  there  was  a  great  cluster  of  bayberry  bushes. 
The  New  England  farmer  came  out  of  his  barn  to 
watch  his  daughter  go  along  the  path,  but  she  had 
disappeared  behind  the  bushes.  He  looked  away  past 
his  house  to  the  fields  and  to  the  mountains  in  the 
distance.  He  also  saw  the  green  cup-like  fields  and 
the  grim  mountains.  There  was  an  almost  imper 
ceptible  tightening  of  the  muscles  of  his  half  worn-out 
old  body.  For  a  long  time  he  stood  in  silence  and 
then,  knowing  from  long  experience  the  danger  of 
having  thoughts,  he  went  back  into  the  barn  and  busied 
himself  with  the  mending  of  an  agricultural  tool  that 
had  been  mended  many  times  before. 


THE      NEW      ENGLANDER  137 

The  son  of  the  Leanders  who  went  to  live  in  New 
York  City  was  the  father  of  one  son,  a  thin  sensitive 
boy  who  looked  like  Elsie.  The  son  died  when  he 
was  twenty-three  years  old  and  some  years  later  the 
father  died  and  left  his  money  to  the  old  people  on 
the  New  England  farm.  The  two  Leanders  who  had 
gone  west  had  lived  there  with  their  father's  brother, 
a  farmer,  until  they  grew  into  manhood.  Then  Will, 
the  younger,  got  a  job  on  a  railroad.  He  was  killed 
one  winter  morning.  It  was  a  cold  snowy  day  and 
when  the  freight  train  he  was  in  charge  of  as  con 
ductor  left  the  city  of  Des  Moines,  he  started  to  run 
over  the  tops  of  the  cars.  His  feet  slipped  and  he 
shot  down  into  space.  That  was  the  end  of  him. 

Of  the  new  generation  there  was  only  Elsie  and  her 
brother  Tom,  whom  she  had  never  seen,  left  alive. 
Her  father  and  mother  talked  of  going  west  to  Tom 
for  two  years  before  they  came  to  a  decision.  Then 
it  took  another  year  to  dispose  of  the  farm  and  make 
preparations.  During  the  whole  time  Elsie  did  not 
think  much  about  the  change  about  to  take  place  in 
her  life. 

The  trip  west  on  the  railroad  train  jolted  Elsie  out 
of  herself.  In  spite  of  her  detached  attitude  toward 
life  she  became  excited.  Her  mother  sat  up  very 
straight  and  stiff  in  the  seat  in  the  sleeping  car  and  her 
father  walked  up  and  down  in  the  aisle.  After  a 
night  when  the  younger  of  the  two  women  did  not 


138      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

sleep  but  lay  awake  with  red  burning  cheeks  and  with 
her  thin  fingers  incessantly  picking  at  the  bed  clothes 
in  her  berth  while  the  train  went  through  towns  and 
cities,  crawled  up  the  sides  of  hills  and  fell  down  into 
forest-clad  valleys,  she  got  up  and  dressed  to  sit  all 
day  looking  at  a  new  kind  of  land.  The  train  ran  for 
a  day  and  through  another  sleepless  night  in  a  flat 
land  where  every  field  was  as  large  as  a  farm  in  her 
own  country.  Towns  appeared  and  disappeared  in  a 
continual  procession.  The  whole  land  was  so  unlike 
anything  she  had  ever  known  that  she  began  to  feel 
unlike  herself.  In  the  valley  where  she  had  been  born 
and  where  she  had  lived  all  her  days  everything  had 
an  air  of  finality.  Nothing  could  be  changed.  The 
tiny  fields  were  chained  to  the  earth.  They  were  fixed 
in  their  places  and  surrounded  by  aged  stone  walls. 
The  fields  like  the  mountains  that  looked  down  at 
them  were  as  unchangeable  as  the  passing  days.  She 
had  a  feeling  they  had  always  been  so,  would  always 
be  so. 

Elsie  sat  like  her  mother,  upright  in  the  car  seat 
and  with  a  back  like  the  back  of  a  drill  sergeant.  The 
train  ran  swiftly  along  through  Ohio  and  Indiana. 
Her  thin  hands  like  her  mother's  hands  were  crossed 
and  locked.  One  passing  casually  through  the  car 
might  have  thought  both  women  prisoners  handcuffed 
and  bound  to  their  seats.  Night  came  on  and  she 
again  got  into  her  berth.  Again  she  lay  awake  and 


THE      NEW      ENGLANDER  139 

her  thin  cheeks  became  flushed,  but  she  thought  new 
thoughts.  Her  hands  were  no  longer  gripped  together  5 
and  she  did  not  pick  at  the  bed  clothes.  Twice  during 
the  night  she  stretched  herself  and  yawned,  a  thing 
she  had  never  in  her  life  done  before.  The  train 
stopped  at  a  town  on  the  prairies,  and  as  there  was 
something  the  matter  with  one  of  the  wheels  of  the 
car  in  which  she  lay  the  trainsmen  came  with  flaming 
torches  to  tinker  it.  There  was  a  great  pounding 
and  shouting.  When  the  train  went  on  its  way  she 
wanted  to  get  out  of  her  berth  and  run  up  and  down 
in  the  aisle  of  the  car.  The  fancy  had  come  to  her 
that  the  men  tinkering  with  the  car  wheel  were  new 
men  out  of  the  new  land  who  with  strong  hammers  had 
broken  away  the  doors  of  her  prison.  They  had  de 
stroyed  forever  the  programme  she  had  made  for  her 
life. 

Elsie  was  filled  with  joy  at  the  thought  that  the 
train  was  still  going  on  into  the  West.  She  wanted 
to  go  on  forever  in  a  straight  line  into  the  unknown. 
She  fancied  herself  no  longer  on  a  train  and  imagined 
she  had  become  a  winged  thing  flying  through  space. 
Her  long  years  of  sitting  alone  by  the  rock  on  the 
New  England  farm  had  got  her  into  the  habit  of  ex 
pressing  her  thoughts  aloud.  Her  thin  voice  broke 
the  silence  that  lay  over  the  sleeping  car  and  her 
father  and  mother,  both  also  lying  awake,  sat  up  in 
their  berth  to  listen. 


140      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

Tom  Leander,  the  only  living  male  representative 
of  the  new  generation  of  Leanders,  was  a  loosely 
built  man  of  forty  inclined  to  corpulency.  At  twenty 
he  had  married  the  daughter  of  a  neighboring  farmer, 
and  when  his  wife  inherited  some  money  she  and  Tom 
moved  into  the  town  of  Apple  Junction  in  Iowa  where 
Tom  opened  a  grocery.  The  venture  prospered  as 
did  Tom's  matrimonial  venture.  When  his  brother 
died  in  New  York  City  and  his  father,  mother,  and 
sister  decided  to  come  west  Tom  was  already  the 
father  of  a  daughter  and  four  sons. 

On  the  prairies  north  of  town  and  in  the  midst  of 
a  vast  level  stretch  of  cornfields,  there  was  a  partly 
completed  brick  house  that  had  belonged  to  a  rich 
farmer  named  Russell  who  had  begun  to  build  the 
house  intending  to  make  it  the  most  magnificent  place 
in  the  county,  but  when  it  was  almost  completed  he 
had  found  himself  without  money  and  heavily  in  debt. 
The  farm,  consisting  of  several  hundred  acres  of  corn 
land,  had  been  split  into  three  farms  and  sold.  No 
one  had  wanted  the  huge  unfinished  brick  house.  For 
years  it  had  stood  vacant,  its  windows  staring  out  over 
the  fields  that  had  been  planted  almost  up  to  the  door. 

In  buying  the  Russell  house  Tom  was  moved  by 
two  motives.  He  had  a  notion  that  in  New  England 
the  Leanders  had  been  rather  magnificent  people.  His 
memory  of  his  father's  place  in  the  Vermont  valley 
was  shadowy,  but  in  speaking  of  it  to  his  wife  he 


THE      NEW      ENGLANDER  14! 

became  very  definite.  "We  had  good  blood  in  us, 
we  Leanders,"  he  said,  straightening  his  shoulders. 
"We  lived  in  a  big  house.  We  were  important 
people." 

Wanting  his  father  and  mother  to  feel  at  home  in 
the  new  place,  Tom  had  also  another  motive.  He 
was  not  a  very  energetic  man  and,  although  he  had 
done  well  enough  as  keeper  of  a  grocery,  his  success 
was  largely  due  to  the  boundless  energy  of  his  wife. 
She  did  not  pay  much  attention  to  her  household  and 
her  children,  like  little  animals,  had  to  take  care  of 
themselves,  but  in  any  matter  concerning  the  store 
her  word  was  law. 

To  have  his  father  the  owner  of  the  Russell  place 
Tom  felt  would  establish  him  as  a  man  of  consequence 
in  the  eyes  of  his  neighbors.  "I  can  tell  you  what, 
they're  used  to  a  big  house,"  he  said  to  his  wife.  "I 
tell  you  what,  my  people  are  used  to  living  in  style." 

The  exaltation  that  had  come  over  Elsie  on  the 
train  wore  away  in  the  presence  of  the  grey  empty  Iowa 
fields,  but  something  of  the  effect  of  it  remained 
with  her  for  months.  In  the  big  brick  house  life 
went  on  much  as  it  had  in  the  tiny  New  England  house 
where  she  had  always  lived.  The  Leanders  installed 
themselves  in  three  or  four  rooms  on  the  ground  floor. 
After  a  few  weeks  the  furniture  that  had  been  shipped 
by  freight  arrived  and  was  hauled  out  from  town  in 


142      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

one  of  Tom's  grocery  wagons.  There  were  three  or 
four  acres  of  ground  covered  with  great  piles  of 
boards  the  unsuccessful  farmer  had  intended  to  use  in 
the  building  of  stables.  Tom  sent  men  to  haul  the 
boards  away  and  Elsie's  father  prepared  to  plant  a 
garden.  They  had  come  west  in  April  and  as  soon 
as  they  were  installed  in  the  house  ploughing  and 
planting  began  in  the  fields  nearby.  The  habit  of  a 
lifetime  returned  to  the  daughter  of  the  house.  In 
the  new  place  there  was  no  gnarled  orchard  sur 
rounded  by  a  half-ruined  stone  fence.  All  of  the 
fences  in  all  of  the  fields  that  stretched  away  out  of 
sight  to  the  north,  south,  east,  and  west  were  made 
of  wire  and  looked  like  spider  webs  against  the  black 
ness  of  the  ground  when  it  had  been  freshly  ploughed. 
There  was  however  the  house  itself.  It  was  like 
an  island  rising  out  of  the  sea.  In  an  odd  way  the 
house,  although  it  was  less  than  ten  years  old,  was 
very  old.  Its  unnecessary  bigness  represented  an  old 
impulse  in  men.  Elsie  felt  that.  At  the  east  side 
there  was  a  door  leading  to  a  stairway  that  ran  into 
the  upper  part  of  the  house  that  was  kept  locked. 
Two  or  three  stone  steps  led  up  to  it.  Elsie  could  sit 
on  the  top  step  with  her  back  against  the  door  and 
gaze  into  the  distance  without  being  disturbed.  Al 
most  at  her  feet  began  the  fields  that  seemed  to  go  on 
and  on  forever.  The  fields  were  like  the  waters  of  a 
sea.  Men  came  to  plough  and  plant.  Giant  horses 


THE      NEW      ENGLANDER  143 

moved  in  a  procession  across  the  prairies.  A  young 
man  who  drove  six  horses  came  directly  toward  her. 
She  was  fascinated.  The  breasts  of  the  horses  as  they 
came  forward  with  bowed  heads  seemed  like  the 
breasts  of  giants.  The  soft  spring  air  that  lay  over 
the  fields  was  also  like  a  sea.  The  horses  were  giants 
walking  on  the  floor  of  a  sea.  With  their  breasts 
they  pushed  the  waters  of  the  sea  before  them.  They 
were  pushing  the  waters  out  of  the  basin  of  the  sea. 
The  young  man  who  drove  them  also  was  a  giant. 

Elsie  pressed  her  body  against  the  closed  door  at  the 
top  of  the  steps.  In  the  garden  back  of  the  house  she 
could  hear  her  father  at  work.  He  was  raking  dry  mas 
ses  of  weeds  off  the  ground  preparatory  to  spading 
it  for  a  family  garden.  He  had  always  worked 
in  a  tiny  confined  place  and  would  do  the  same  thing 
here.  In  this  vast  open  place  he  would  work  with 
small  tools,  doing  little  things  with  infinite  care,  rais 
ing  little  vegetables.  In  the  house  her  mother  would 
crochet  little  tidies.  She  herself  would  be  small.  She 
would  press  her  body  against  the  door  of  the  house, 
try  to  get  herself  out  of  sight.  Only  the  feeling  that 
sometimes  took  possession  of  her,  and  that  did  not 
form  itself  into  a  thought  would  be  large. 

The  six  horses  turned  at  the  fence  and  the  outside 
horse  got  entangled  in  the  traces.  The8  driver  swore 
vigorously.  Then  he  turned  and  started  at  the  pale 


144      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

New  Englander  and  with  another  oath  pulled  the  heads 
of  the  horses  about  and  drove  away  into  the  distance. 
The  field  in  which  he  was  ploughing  contained  two 
hundred  acres.  Elsie  did  not  wait  for  him  to  return 
but  went  into  the  house  and  sat  with  folded  arms  in  a 
room.  The  house  she  thought  was  a  ship  floating  in  a 
sea  on  the  floor  of  which  giants  went  up  and  down. 

May  came  and  then  June.  In  the  great  fields  work 
was  always  going  on  and  Elsie  became  somewhat  used 
to  the  sight  of  the  young  man  in  the  field  that  came 
down  to  the  steps.  Sometimes  when  he  drove  his 
horses  down  to  the  wire  fence  he  smiled  and  nodded. 

In  the  month  of  August,  when  it  is  very  hot,  the  corn 
in  Iowa  fields  grows  until  the  corn  stalks  resemble 
young  trees.  The  corn  fields  become  forests.  The 
time  for  the  cultivating  of  the  corn  has  passed  and 
weeds  grow  thick  between  the  corn  rows.  The  men 
with  their  giant  horses  have  gone  away.  Over  the 
immense  fields  silence  broods. 

When  the  time  of  the  laying-by  of  the  crop  came 
that  first  summer  after  Elsie's  arrival  in  the  West  her 
mind,  partially  awakened  by  the  strangeness  of  the 
railroad  trip,  awakened  again.  She  did  not  feel  like 
a  staid  thin  woman  with  a  back  like  the  back  of  a  drill 
sergeant,  but  like  something  new  and  as  strange  as  the 
new  land  into  which  she  had  come  to  live.  For  a  time 
she  did  not  know  what  was  the  matter.  In  the  field 


THE      NEW      ENGLANDER  145 

the  corn  had  grown  so  high  that  she  could  not  see  into 
the  distance.  The  corn  was  like  a  wall  and  the  little 
bare  spot  of  land  on  which  her  father's  house  stood  was 
like  a  house  built  behind  the  walls  of  a  prison.  For 
a  time  she  was  depressed,  thinking  that  she  had  come 
west  into  a  wide  open  country,  only  to  find  herself 
locked  up  more  closely  than  ever. 

An  impulse  came  to  her.  She  arose  and  going  down 
three  or  four  steps  seated  herself  almost  on  a  level 
with  the  ground. 

Immediately  she  got  a  sense  of  release.  She  could 
not  see  over  the  corn  but  she  could  see  under  it.  The 
corn  had  long  wide  leaves  that  met  over  the  rows. 
The  rows  became  long  tunnels  running  away  into  in 
finity.  Out  of  the  black  ground  grew  weeds  that  made 
a  soft  carpet  of  green.  From  above  light  sifted  down. 
The  corn  rows  were  mysteriously  beautiful.  They 
were  warm  passageways  running  out  into  life.  She 
got  up  from  the  steps  and,  walking  timidly  to  the  wire 
fence  that  separated  her  from  the  field,  put  her  hand 
between  the  wires  and  took  hold  of  one  of  the  corn 
stalks.  For  some  reason  after  she  had  touched  the 
strong  young  stalk  and  had  held  it  for  a  moment  firmly 
in  her  hand  she  grew  afraid.  Running  quickly  back  to 
the  step  she  sat  down  and  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands.  Her  body  trembled.  She  tried  to  imagine  her 
self  crawling  through  the  fence  and  wandering  along 
one  of  the  passageways.  The  thought  of  trying  the 


146      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

experiment  fascinated  but  at  the  same  time  terrified. 
She  got  quickly  up  and  went  into  the  house. 

One  Saturday  night  in  August  Elsie  found  herself 
unable  to  sleep.  Thoughts,  more  definite  than  any  she 
had  ever  known  before,  came  into  her  mind.  It  was 
a  quiet  hot  night  and  her  bed  stood  near  a  window. 
Her  room  was  the  only  one  the  Leanders  occupied  on 
the  second  floor  of  the  house.  At  midnight  a  little 
breeze  came  up  from  the  south  and  when  she  sat  up  in 
bed  the  floor  of  corn  tassels  lying  below  her  line  of 
sight  looked  in  the  moonlight  like  the  face  of  a  sea 
just  stirred  by  a  gentle  breeze. 

A  murmuring  began  in  the  corn  and  murmuring 
thoughts  and  memories  awoke  in  her  taind.  The 
long  wide  succulent  leaves  had  begun  to  dry  in  the 
intense  heat  of  the  August  days  and  as  the  wind 
stirred  the  corn  they  rubbed  against  each  other.  A 
call,  far  away,  as  of  a  thousand  voices  arose.  She 
imagined  the  voices  were  like  the  voices  of  children. 
They  were  not  like  her  brother  Tom's  children,  noisy 
boisterous  little  animals,  but  something  quite  different, 
tiny  little  things  with  large  eyes  and  thin  sensitive 
hands.  One  after  another  they  crept  into  her  arms. 
She  became  so  excited  over  the  fancy  that  she  sat  up 
in  bed  and  taking  a  pillow  into  her  arms  held  it  against 
her  breast.  The  figure  of  her  cousin,  the  pale  sensi 
tive  young  Leander  who  had  lived  with  his  father  in 


THE      NEW      ENGLANDER  147 

New  York  City  and  who  had  died  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
three,  came  into  her  mind.  It  was  as  though  the  young 
man  had  come  suddenly  into  the  room.  She  dropped 
the  pillow  and  sat  waiting,  intense,  expectant. 

Young  Harry  Leander  had  come  to  visit  his  cousin 
on  the  New  England  farm  during  the  late  summer 
of  the  year  before  he  died.  He  had  stayed  there  for 
a  month  and  almost  every  afternoon  had  gone  with 
Elsie  to  sit  by  the  rock  at  the  back  of  the  orchard. 
One  afternoon  when  they  had  both  been  for  a  long 
time  silent  he  began  to  talk.  "I  want  to  go  live  in  the 
West,"  he  said.  "I  want  to  go  live  in  the  West.  I 
want  to  grow  strong  and  be  a  man,"  he  repeated. 
Tears  came  into  his  eyes. 

They  got  up  to  return  to  the  house,  Elsie  walking 
in  silence  beside  the  young  man.  The  moment  marked 
a  high  spot  in  her  life.  A  strange  trembling  eager 
ness  for  something  she  had  not  realized  in  her  expe 
rience  of  life  had  taken  possession  of  her.  They  went 
in  silence  through  the  orchard  but  when  they  came  to 
the  bayberry  bush  her  cousin  stopped  in  the  path  and 
turned  to  face  her.  "I  want  you  to  kiss  me,"  he  said 
eagerly,  stepping  toward  her. 

A  fluttering  uncertainty  had  taken  possession  of 
Elsie  and  had  been  transmitted  to  her  cousin.  After 
he  had  made  the  sudden  and  unexpected  demand  and 
had  stepped  so  close  to  her  that  his  breath  could  be 
felt  on  her  cheek,  his  own  cheeks  became  scarlet  and 


148      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

his  hand  that  had  taken  her  hand  trembled.  "Well, 
I  wish  I  were  strong.  I  only  wish  I  were  strong,'1  he 
said  hesitatingly  and  turning  walked  away  along  the 
path  toward  the  house. 

And  in  the  strange  new  house,  set  like  an  island  in  its 
sea  of  corn,  Harry  Leander's  voice  seemed  to  arise 
again  above  the  fancied  voices  of  the  children  that  had 
been  coming  out  of  the  fields.  Elsie  got  out  of  bed 
and  walked  up  and  down  in  the  dim  light  coming 
through  the  window.  Her  body  trembled  violently. 
"I  want  you  to  kiss  me/'  the  voice  said  again  and  to 
quiet  it  and  to  quiet  also  the  answering  voice  in  her 
self  she  went  to  kneel  by  the  bed  and  taking  the  pillow 
again  into  her  arms  pressed  it  against  her  face. 

Tom  Leander  came  with  his  wife  and  family  to  visit 
his  father  and  mother  on  Sundays.  The  family  ap 
peared  at  about  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning.  When 
the  wagon  turned  out  of  the  road  that  ran  past  the 
Russell  place  Tom  shouted.  There  was  a  field  be 
tween  the  house  and  the  road  and  the  wagon  could 
not  be  seen  as  it  came  along  the  narrow  way  through 
the  corn.  After  Tom  had  shouted,  his  daughter  Eliz 
abeth,  a  tall  girl  of  sixteen,  jumped  out  of  the  wagon. 
All  five  children  came  tearing  toward  the  house  through 
the  corn.  A  series  of  wild  shouts  arose  on  the  still 
morning  air. 

The  groceryman  had  brought  food  from  the  store. 


THE      NEW      ENGLANDER  149 

When  the  horse  had  been  unhitched  and  put  into  a 
shed  he  and  his  wife  began  to  carry  packages  into  the 
house.  The  four  Leander  boys,  accompanied  by  their 
sister,  disappeared  into  the  near-by  fields.  Three  dogs 
that  had  trotted  out  from  town  under  the  wagon  ac 
companied  the  children.  Two  or  three  children  and 
occasionally  a  young  man  from  a  neighboring  farm 
had  come  to  join  in  the  fun.  Elsie's  sister-in-law  dis 
missed  them  all  with  a  wave  of  her  hand.  With  a 
wave  of  her  hand  she  also  brushed  Elsie  aside.  Fires 
weie  lighted  and  the  house  reeked  with  the  smell  of 
cooking.  Elsie  went  to  sit  on  the  step  at  the  side  of 
the  house.  The  corn  fields  that  had  been  so  quiet 
rang  with  shouts  and  with  the  barking  of  dogs. 

Tom  Leander's  oldest  child,  Elizabeth,  was  like  her 
mother,  full  of  energy.  She  was  thin  and  tall  like  the 
women  of  her  father's  house  but  very  strong  and  alive. 
In  secret  she  wanted  to  be  a  lady  but  when  she  tried 
her  brothers,  led  by  her  father  and  mother,  made  fun 
of  her.  "Don't  put  on  airs,"  they  said.  When  she 
got  into  the  country  with  no  one  but  her  brothers  and 
two  or  three  neighboring  farm  boys  she  herself  became 
a  boy.  With  the  boys  she  went  tearing  through  the 
fields,  following  the  dogs  in  pursuit  of  rabbits.  Some 
times  a  young  man  came  with  the  children  from  a 
near-by  farm.  Then  she  did  not  know  what  to  do 
with  herself.  She  wanted  to  Walk  demurely  along  the 
rows  through  the  corn  but  was  afraid  her  brothers 


150      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

would  laugh  and  in  desperation  outdid  the  boys  in 
roughness  and  noisiness.  She  screamed  and  shouted 
and  running  wildly  tore  her  dress  on  the  wire  fences 
as  she  scrambled  over  in  pursuit  of  the  dogs.  When 
a  rabbit  was  caught  and  killed  she  rushed  in  and  tore 
it  out  of  the  grasp  of  the  dogs.  The  blood  of  the 
little  dying  animal  dripped  on  her  clothes.  She  swung 
it  over  her  head  and  shouted. 

The  farm  hand  who  had  worked  all  summer  in  the 
field  within  sight  of  Elsie  became  enamoured  of  the 
young  woman  from  town.  When  the  groceryman's 
family  appeared  on  Sunday  mornings  he  also  appeared 
but  did  not  come  to  the  house.  When  the  boys  and 
dogs  came  tearing  through  the  fields  he  joined  them. 
He  also  was  self-conscious  and  did  not  want  the  boys 
to  know  the  purpose  of  his  coming  and  when  he  and 
Elizabeth  found  themselves  alone  together  he  became 
embarrassed.  For  a  moment  they  walked  together  in 
silence.  In  a  wide  circle  about  them,  in  the  forest  of 
the  corn,  ran  the  boys  and  dogs.  The  young  man  had 
something  he  wanted  to  say,  but  when  he  tried  to  find 
words  his  tongue  became  thick  and  his  lips  felt  hot  and 
dry.  "Well,"  he  began,  "let's  you  and  me—11 

Words  failed  him  and  Elizabeth  turned  and  ran 
after  her  brothers  and  for  the  rest  of  the  day  he  could 
not  manage  to  get  her  out  of  their  sight.  When  he 
went  to  join  them  she  became  the  noisiest  member  of 
the  party.  A  frenzy  of  activity  took  possession  of 


THE      NEW      ENGLANDER  151 

her.  With  hair  hanging  down  her  back,  with  clothes 
torn  and  with  cheeks  and  hands  scratched  and  bleed 
ing  she  led  her  brothers  in  the  endless  wild  pursuit  of 
the  rabbits. 

The  Sunday  in  August  that  followed  Elsie  Leander's 
sleepless  night  was  hot  and  cloudy.  In  the  morning  she 
was  half  ill  and  as  soon  as  the  visitors  from  town 
arrived  she  crept  away  to  sit  on  the  step  at  the  side  of 
the  house.  The  children  ran  away  into  the  fields.  An 
almost  overpowering  desire  to  run  with  them,  shouting 
and  playing  along  the  corn  rows  took  possession  of 
her.  She  arose  and  went  to  the  back  of  the  house. 
Her  father  was  at  work  in  the  garden,  pulling  weeds 
from  between  rows  of  vegetables.  Inside  the  house 
she  could  hear  her  sister-in-law  moving  about.  On  the 
front  porch  her  brother  Tom  was  asleep  with  his 
mother  beside  him.  Elsie  went  back  to  the  step  and 
then  arose  and  went  to  where  the  corn  came  down  to 
the  fence.  She  climbed  awkwardly  over  and  went  a 
little  way  along  one  of  the  rows.  Putting  out  her  hand 
she  touched  the  firm  stalks  and  then,  becoming  afraid, 
dropped  to  her  knees  on  the  carpet  of  weeds  that  cov 
ered  the  ground.  For  a  long  time  she  stayed  thus  lis 
tening  to  the  voices  of  the  children  in  the  distance. 

An  hour  slipped  away.  Presently  it  was  time  for 
dinner  and  her  sister-in-law  came  to  the  back  door  and 
shouted.  There  was  an  answering  whoop  from  the 


152      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

distance  and  the  children  came  running  through  the 
fields.  They  climbed  over  the  fence  and  ran  shouting 
across  her  father's  garden.  Elsie  also  arose.  She  was 
about  to  attempt  to  climb  back  over  the  fence  un 
observed  when  she  heard  a  rustling  in  the  corn.  Young 
Elizabeth  Leander  appeared.  Beside  her  walked  the 
ploughman  who  but  a  few  months  earlier  had  planted 
the  corn  in  the  field  where  Elsie  now  stood.  She  could 
see  the  two  people  coming  slowly  along  the  rows.  An 
understanding  had  been  established  between  them.  The 
man  reached  through  between  the  corn  stalks  and 
touched  the  hand  of  the  girl  who  laughed  awkwardly 
and  running  to  the  fence  climbed  quickly  over.  In  her 
hand  she  held  the  limp  body  of  a  rabbit  the  dogs  had 
killed. 

The  farm  hand  went  away  and  when  Elizabeth  had 
gone  into  the  house  Elsie  climbed  over  the  fence.  Her 
niece  stood  just  within  the  kitchen  door  holding  the 
dead  rabbit  by  one  leg.  The  other  leg  had  been  torn 
away  by  the  dogs.  At  sight  of  the  New  England 
woman,  who  seemed  to  look  at  her  with  hard  unsym 
pathetic  eyes,  she  was  ashamed  and  went  quickly  into 
the  house.  She  threw  the  rabbit  upon  a  table  in  the 
parlor  and  then  ran  out  of  the  room.  Its  blood  ran 
out  on  the  delicate  flowers  of  a  white  crocheted  table 
cover  that  had  been  made  by  Elsie's  mother. 

The  Sunday  dinner  with  all  the  living  Leanders  gath 
ered  about  the  table  was  gone  through  in  a  heavy  lum- 


THE      NEW      ENGLANDER  153 

bering  silence.  When  the  dinner  was  over  and  Tom 
and  his  wife  had  washed  the  dishes  they  went  to  sit 
with  the  older  people  on  the  front  porch.  Presently 
they  were  both  asleep.  Elsie  returned  to  the  step  at 
the  side  of  the  house  but  when  the  desire  to  go  again 
into  the  cornfields  came  sweeping  over  her  she  got  up 
and  went  indoors. 

The  woman  of  thirty-five  tip-toed  about  the  big 
house  like  a  frightened  child.  The  dead  rabbit  that 
lay  on  the  table  in  the  parlour  had  become  cold  and 
stiff.  Its  blood  had  dried  on  the  white  table  cover. 
She  went  upstairs  but  did  not  go  to  her  own  room.  A 
spirit  of  adventure  had  hold  of  her.  In  the  upper  part 
of  the  house  there  were  many  rooms  and  in  some  of 
them  no  glass  had  been  put  into  the  windows.  The 
windows  had  been  boarded  up  and  narrow  streaks  of 
light  crept  in  through  the  cracks  between  the  boards. 

Elsie  tip-toed  up  the  flight  of  stairs  past  the  room 
in  which  she  slept  and  opening  doors  went  into  other 
rooms.  Dust  lay  thick  on  the  floors.  In  the  silence 
she  could  hear  her  brother  snoring  as  he  slept  in  the 
chair  on  the  front  porch.  From  what  seemed  a  far 
away  place  there  came  the  shrill  cries  of  the  children. 
The  cries  became  soft.  They  were  like  the  cries  of 
unborn  children  that  had  called  to  her  out  of  the  fields 
on  the  night  before. 

Into  her  mind  came  the  intense  silent  figure  of  her 
mother  sitting  on  the  porch  beside  her  son  and  waiting 


154      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

for  the  day  to  wear  itself  out  into  night.  The  thought 
brought  a  lump  into  her  throat.  She  wanted  some 
thing  and  did  not  know  what  it  was.  Her  own  mood 
frightened  her.  In  a  windowless  room  at  the  back  of 
the  house  one  of  the  boards  over  a  window  had  been 
broken  and  a  bird  had  flown  in  and  become  impris 
oned. 

The  presence  of  the  woman  frightened  the  bird.  It 
flew  wildly  about.  Its  beating  wings  stirred  up  dust 
that  danced  in  the  air.  Elsie  stood  perfectly  still  ,also 
frightened,  not  by  the  presence  of  the  bird  but  by  the 
presence  of  life.  Like  the  bird  she  was  a  prisoner. 
The  thought  gripped  her.  She  wanted  to  go  outdoors 
where  her  niece  Elizabeth  walked  with  the  young 
ploughman  through  the  corn,  but  was  like  the  bird  in 
the  room — a  prisoner.  She  moved  restlessly  about. 
The  bird  flew  back  and  forth  across  the  room.  It 
alighted  on  the  window  sill  near  the  place  where  the 
board  was  broken  away.  She  stared  into  the  fright 
ened  eyes  of  the  bird  that  in  turn  stared  into  her  eyes. 
Then  the  bird  flew  away,  out  through  the  window,  and 
Elsie  turned  and  ran  nervously  downstairs  and  out  into 
the  yard.  She  climbed  over  the  wire  fence  and  ran 
with  stooped  shoulders  along  one  of  the  tunnels. 

Elsie  ran  into  the  vastness  of  the  cornfields  filled 
with  but  one  desire.  She  wanted  to  get  out  of  her  life 
and  into  some  new  and  sweeter  life  she  felt  must  be 


THE      NEW      ENGLANDER  155 

hidden  away  somewhere  in  the  fields.  After  she  had 
run  a  long  way  she  came  to  a  wire  fence  and  crawled 
over.  Her  hair  became  unloosed  and  fell  down  over 
her  shoulders.  Her  cheeks  became  flushed  and  for 
the  moment  she  looked  like  a  young  girl.  When  she 
climbed  over  the  fence  she  tore  a  great  hole  in  the 
front  of  her  dress.  For  a  moment  her  tiny  breasts 
were  exposed  and  then  her  hand  clutched  and  held 
nervously  the  sides  of  the  tear.  In  the  distance  she 
could  hear  the  voices  of  the  boys  and  the  barking  of 
the  dogs.  A  summer  storm  had  been  threatening  for 
days  and  now  black  clouds  had  begun  to  spread  them 
selves  over  the  sky.  As  she  ran  nervously  forward, 
stopping  to  listen  and  then  running  on  again,  the  dry 
corn  blades  brushed  against  her  shoulders  and  a  fine 
shower  of  yellow  dust  from  the  corn  tassels  fell  on 
her  hair.  A  continued  crackling  noise  accompanied 
her  progress.  The  dust  made  a  golden  crown  about 
her  head.  From  the  sky  overhead  a  low  rumbling  sound, 
like  the  growling  of  giant  dogs,  came  to  her  ears. 

The  thought  that  having  at  last  ventured  into  the 
corn  she  would  never  escape  became  fixed  in  the  mind 
of  the  running  woman.  Sharp  pains  shot  through  her 
body.  Presently  she  was  compelled  to  stop  and  sit 
on  the  ground.  For  a  long  time  she  sat  with  closed 
eyes.  Her  dress  became  soiled.  Little  insects  that  live 
in  the  ground  under  the  corn  came  out  of  their  holes 
and  crawled  over  her  legs. 


156      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

Following  some  obscure  impulse  the  tired  woman 
threw  herself  on  her  back  and  lay  still  with  closed  eyes. 
Her  fright  passed.  It  was  warm  and  close  in  the  room- 
like  tunnels.  The  pain  in  her  side  went  away.  She 
opened  her  eyes  and  between  the  wide  green  corn 
blades  could  see  patches  of  a  black  threatening  sky. 
She  did  not  want  to  be  alarmed  and  so  closed  her  eyes 
again.  Her  thin  hand  no  longer  gripped  the  tear  in 
her  dress  and  her  little  breasts  were  exposed.  They 
expanded  and  contracted  in  spasmodic  jerks.  She 
threw  her  hands  back  over  her  head  and  lay  still. 

It  seemed  to  Elsie  that  hours  passed  as  she  lay 
thus,  quiet  and  passive  under  the  corn.  Deep  within 
her  there  was  a  feeling  that  something  was  about  to 
happen,  something  that  would  lift  her  out  of  herself, 
that  would  tear  her  away  from  her  past  and  the  past 
of  her  people.  Her  thoughts  were  not  definite.  She 
lay  still  and  waited  as  she  had  waited  for  days  and 
months  by  the  rock  at  the  back  of  the  orchard  on 
the  Vermont  farm  when  she  was  a  girl.  A  deep  grum 
bling  noise  went  on  in  the  sky  overhead  but  the  sky 
and  everything  she  had  ever  known  seemed  very  far 
away,  no  part  of  herself. 

After  a  long  silence,  when  it  seemed  to  her  that 
she  had  gone  out  of  herself  as  in  a  dream,  Elsie  heard 
a  man's  voice  calling.  uAho,  aho,  aho,"  shouted  the 
voice  and  after  another  period  of  silence  there  arose 
answering  voices  and  then  the  sound  of  bodies  crash- 


THE      NEW      ENGLANDER  157 

ing  through  the  corn  and  the  excited  chatter  of  chil 
dren.  A  dog  came  running  along  the  row  where  she 
lay  and  stood  beside  her.  His  cold  nose  touched  her 
face  and  she  sat  up.  The  dog  ran  away.  The  Lean- 
der  boys  passed.  She  could  see  their  bare  legs  flash 
ing  in  and  out  across  one  of  the  tunnels.  Her  brother 
had  become  alarmed  by  the  rapid  approach  of  the 
thunder  storm  and  wanted  to  get  his  family  to  town. 
His  voice  kept  calling  from  the  house  and  the  voices 
of  the  children  answered  from  the  fields. 

Elsie  sat  on  the  ground  with  her  hands  pressed 
together.  An  odd  feeling  of  disappointment  had  pos 
session  of  her.  She  arose  and  walked  slowly  along 
in  the  general  direction  taken  by  the  children.  She 
came  to  a  fence  and  crawled  over,  tearing  her  dress 
in  a  new  place.  One  of  her  stockings  had  become 
unloosed  and  had  slipped  down  over  her  shoe  top. 
The  long  sharp  weeds  had  scratched  her  leg  so  that 
it  was  criss-crossed  with  red  lines,  but  she  was  not 
conscious  of  any  pain. 

The  distraught  woman  followed  the  children  until 
she  came  within  sight  of  her  father's  house  and  then 
stopped  and  again  sat  on  the  ground.  There  was 
another  loud  crash  of  thunder  and  Tom  Leander's 
voice  called  again,  this  time  half  angrily.  The  name 
of  the  girl  Elizabeth  was  shouted  in  loud  masculine 
tones  that  rolled  and  echoed  like  the  thunder  along 
the  aisles  under  the  corn. 


158      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

And  then  Elizabeth  came  into  sight  accompanied  by 
the  young  ploughman.  They  stopped  near  Elsie  and 
the  man  took  the  girl  into  his  arms.  At  the  sound  of 
their  approach  Elsie  had  thrown  herself  face  down 
ward  on  the  ground  and  had  twisted  herself  into  a 
position  where  she  could  see  without  being  seen. 
When  their  lips  met  her  tense  hands  grasped  one  of 
the  corn  stalks.  Her  lips  pressed  themselves  into  the 
dust.  When  they  had  gone  on  their  way  she  raised 
her  head.  A  dusty  powder  covered  her  lips. 

What  seemed  another  long  period  of  silence  fell 
over  the  fields.  The  murmuring  voices  of  unborn 
children,  her  imagination  had  created  in  the  whisper 
ing  fields,  became  a  vast  shout.  The  wind  blew 
harder  and  harder.  The  corn  stalks  were  twisted 
and  bent.  Elizabeth  went  thoughtfully  out  of  the 
field  and  climbing  the  fence  confronted  her  father. 
"Where  you  been?  What  you  been  a  doing?"  he 
asked.  "Don't  you  think  we  got  to  get  out  of 
here?" 

When  Elizabeth  went  toward  the  house  Elsie  fol 
lowed,  creeping  on  her  hands  and  knees  like  a  little 
animal,  and  when  she  had  come  within  sight  of  the 
fence  surrounding  the  house  she  sat  on  the  ground 
and  put  her  hands  over  her  face.  Something  within 
herself  was  being  twisted  and  whirled  about  as  the 
tops  of  the  corn  stalks  were  now  being  twisted  and 
whirled  by  the  wind.  She  sat  so  that  she  did  not  look 


THE      NEW      ENGLANDER  159 

toward  the  house  and  when  she  opened  her  eyes  she 
could  again  see  along  the  long  mysterious  aisles. 

Her  brother  with  his  wife  and  children  went  away. 
By  turning  her  head  Elsie  could  see  them  driving  at 
a  trot  out  of  the  yard  back  of  her  father's  house. 
With  the  going  of  the  younger  woman  the  farm 
house  in  the  midst  of  the  cornfield  rocked  by  the 
winds  seemed  the  most  desolate  place  in  the  world. 

Her  mother  came  out  at  the  back  door  of  the 
house.  She  ran  to  the  steps  where  she  knew  her 
daughter  was  in  the  habit  of  sitting  and  then  in 
alarm  began  to  call.  It  did  not  occur  to  Elsie  to 
answer.  The  voice  of  the  older  woman  did  not  seem 
to  have  anything  to  do  with  herself.  It  was  a  thin 
voice  and  was  quickly  lost  in  the  wind  and  in  the 
crashing  sound  that  arose  out  of  the  fields.  With  her 
head  turned  toward  the  house  Elsie  stared  at  her 
mother  who  ran  wildly  around  the  house  and  then 
went  indoors.  The  back  door  of  the  house  went  shut 
with  a  bang. 

The  storm  that  had  been  threatening  broke  with  a 
roar.  Broad  sheets  of  water  swept  over  the  corn 
fields.  Sheets  of  water  swept  over  the  woman's  body. 
The  storm  that  had  for  years  been  gathering  in  her 
also  broke.  Sobs  arose  out  of  her  throat.  She  aban 
doned  herself  to  a  storm  of  grief  that  was  only  par 
tially  grief.  Tears  ran  out  of  her  eyes  and  made  little 
furrows  through  the  dust  on  her  face.  In  the  lulls  that 


l6o      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

occasionally  came  in  the  storm  she  raised  her  head 
and  heard,  through  the  tangled  mass  of  wet  hair  that 
covered  her  ears  and  above  the  sound  of  millions  of 
rain-drops  that  alighted  on  the  earthen  floor  inside 
the  house  of  the  corn,  the  thin  voices  of  her  mother 
and  father  calling  to  her  out  of  the  Leander  house. 


WAR 

HP  HE  story  came  to  me  from  a  woman  met  on  a 
train.  The  car  was  crowded  and  I  took  the  seat 
beside  her.  There  was  a  man  in  the  offing  who  be 
longed  with  her — a  slender  girlish  figure  of  a  man  in 
a  heavy  brown  canvas  coat  such  as  teamsters  wear  in 
the  winter.  He  moved  up  and  down  in  the  aisle  of 
the  car,  wanting  my  place  by  the  woman's  side,  but  I 
did  not  know  that  at  the  time. 

The  woman  had  a  heavy  face  and  a  thick  nose. 
Something  had  happened  to  her.  She  had  been  struck 
a  blow  or  had  a  fall.  Nature  could  never  have  made 
a  nose  so  broad  and  thick  and  ugly.  She  had  talked 
to  me  in  very  good  English.  I  suspect  now  that  she 
was  temporarily  weary  of  the  man  in  the  brown  can 
vas  coat,  that  she  had  travelled  with  him  for  days, 
perhaps  weeks,  and  was  glad  of  the  chance  to  spend 
a  few  hours  in  the  company  of  some  one  else. 

Everyone  knows  the  feeling  of  a  crowded  train  in 
the  middle  of  the  night.  We  ran  along  through 
western  Iowa  and  eastern  Nebraska.  It  had  rained  for 
days  and  the  fields  were  flooded.  In  the  clear  night 
the  moon  came  out  and  the  scene  outside  the  car- 
window  was  strange  and  in  an  odd  way  very  beautiful. 

161 


162       THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

You  get  the  feeling:  the  black  bare  trees  standing  up 
in  clusters  as  they  do  out  in  that  country,  the  pools  of 
water  with  the  moon  reflected  and  running  quickly  as 
it  does  when  the  train  hurries  along,  the  rattle  of  the 
car-trucks,  the  lights  in  isolated  farm-houses,  and  occa 
sionally  the  clustered  lights  of  a  town  as  the  train 
rushed  through  it  into  the  west. 

The  woman  had  just  come  out  of  war-ridden  Po 
land,  had  got  out  of  that  stricken  land  with  her  lover 
by  God  knows  what  miracles  of  effort.  She  made  me 
feel  the  war,  that  woman  did,  and  she  told  me  the  tale 
that  I  want  to  tell  you. 

I  do  not  remember  the  beginning  of  our  talk,  nor 
can  I  tell  you  of  how  the  strangeness  of  my  mood 
grew  to  match  her  mood  until  the  story  she  told  be 
came  a  part  of  the  mystery  of  the  still  night  outside 
the  car-window  and  very  pregnant  with  meaning  to 
me. 

There  was  a  company  of  Polish  refugees  moving 
along  a  road  in  Poland  in  charge  of  a  German.  The 
German  was  a  man  of  perhaps  fifty,  with  a  beard. 
As  I  got  him,  he  was  much  such  a  man  as  might  be 
professor  of  foreign  languages  in  a  college  in  our 
country,  say  at  Des  Moines,  Iowa,  or  Springfield, 
Ohio.  He  would  be  sturdy  and  strong  of  body  and 
given  to  the  eating  of  rather  rank  foods,  as  such  men 
are.  Also  he  would  be  a  fellow  of  books  and  in  his 
thinking  inclined  toward  the  ranker  philosophies.  He 


WAR  163 

was  dragged  into  the  war  because  he  was  a  German, 
and  he  had  steeped  his  soul  in  the  German  philosophy 
of  might.  Faintly,  I  fancy,  there  was  another  notion  in 
his  head  that  kept  bothering  him,  and  so  to  serve  his 
government  with  a  whole  heart  he  read  books  that 
would  re-establish  his  feeling  for  the  strong,  terrible 
thing  for  which  he  fought.  Because  he  was  past  fifty 
he  was  not  on  the  battle  line,  but  was  in  charge  of  the 
refugees,  taking  them  out  of  their  destroyed  village 
to  a  camp  near  a  railroad  where  they  could  be  fed. 

The  refugees  were  peasants,  all  except  the  woman 
in  the  American  train  with  me,  her  lover  and  her 
mother,  an  old  woman  of  sixty-five.  They  had  been 
small  landowners  and  the  others  in  their  party  had 
worked  on  their  estate. 

Along  a  country  road  in  Poland  went  this  party  in 
:harge  of  the  German  who  tramped  heavily  along, 
urging  them  forward.  He  was  brutal  in  his  insistence, 
and  the  old  woman  of  sixty-five,  who  was  a  kind  of 
leader  of  the  refugees,  was  almost  equally  brutal  in 
her  constant  refusal  to  go  forward.  In  the  rainy 
night  she  stopped  in  the  muddy  road  and  her  party 
gathered  about  her.  Like  a  stubborn  horse  she  shook 
her  head  and  muttered  Polish  words.  "I  want  to  be 
let  alone,  that's  what  I  want.  All  I  want  in  the  world 
is  to  be  let  alone,"  she  said,  over  and  over;  and  then 
the  German  came  up  and  putting  his  hand  on  her  back 
pushed  her  along,  so  that  their  progress  through  the 


164      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

dismal  night  was  a  constant  repetition  of  the  stopping, 
her  muttered  words,  and  his  pushing.  They  hated 
each  other  with  whole-hearted  hatred,  that  old  Polish 
woman  and  the  German. 

The  party  came  to  a  clump  of  trees  on  the  bank  of 
a  shallow  stream  and  the  German  took  hold  of  the  old 
woman's  arm  and  dragged  her  through  the  stream 
while  the  others  followed.  Over  and  over  she  said 
the  words:  "I  want  to  be  let  alone.  All  I  want  in  the 
world  is  to  be  let  alone." 

In  the  clump  of  trees  the  German  started  a  fire. 
With  incredible  efficiency  he  had  it  blazing  high  in  a 
few  minutes,  taking  the  matches  and  even  some  bits 
of  dry  wood  from  a  little  rubber-lined  pouch  carried 
in  his  inside  coat  pocket.  Then  he  got  out  tobacco 
and,  sitting  down  on  the  protruding  root  of  a  tree, 
smoked  and  stared  at  the  refugees,  clustered  about  the 
old  woman  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  fire. 

The  German  went  to  sleep.  That  was  what  started 
his  trouble.  He  slept  for  an  hour  and  when  he  awoke 
the  refugees  were  gone.  You  can  imagine  him  jump* 
ing  up  and  tramping  heavily  back  through  the  shallow 
stream  and  along  the  muddy  road  to  gather  his  party 
together  again.  He  would  be  angry  through  and 
through,  but  he  would  not  be  alarmed.  It  was  only  a 
matter,  he  knew,  of  going  far  enough  back  along  the 
road  as  one  goes  back  along  a  road  for  strayed  cattle. 

And  then,  when  the  German  came  up  to  the  party, 


WAR  165 

he  and  the  old  woman  began  to  fight.  She  stopped 
muttering  the  words  about  being  let  alone  and  sprang 
at  him.  One  of  her  old  hands  gripped  his  beard  and 
the  other  buried  itself  in  the  thick  skin  of  his  neck. 

The  struggle  in  the  road  lasted  a  long  time.  The 
German  was  tired  and  not  as  strong  as  he  looked, 
and  there  was  that  faint  thing  in  him  that  kept  him 
from  hitting  the  old  woman  with  his  fist.  He  took 
hold  of  her  thin  shoulders  and  pushed,  and  she  pulled. 
The  struggle  was  like  a  man  trying  to  lift  himself  by 
his  boot  straps.  The  two  fought  and  were  full  of  the 
determination  that  will  not  stop  fighting,  but  they 
were  not  very  strong  physically. 

And  so  their  two  souls  began  to  struggle.  The 
woman  in  the  train  made  me  understand  that  quite 
clearly,  although  it  may  be  difficult  to  get  the  sense 
of  it  over  to  you.  I  had  the  night  and  the  mystery  of 
the  moving  train  to  help  me.  It  was  a  physical  thing, 
the  fight  of  the  two  souls  in  the  dim  light  of  the  rainy 
night  on  that  deserted  muddy  road.  The  air  was  full 
of  the  struggle  and  the  refugees  gathered  about  and 
stood  shivering.  They  shivered  with  cold  and  weari 
ness,  of  course,  but  also  with  something  else.  In  the 
air  everywhere  about  them  they  could  feel  the  vague 
something  going  on.  The  woman  said  that  she  would 
gladly  have  given  her  life  to  have  it  stopped,  or  to 
have  someone  strike  a  light,  and  that  her  man  felt  the 
same  way.  It  was  like  two  winds  struggling,  she  said, 


1 66      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

like  a  soft  yielding  cloud  become  hard  and  trying 
vainly  to  push  another  cloud  out  of  the  sky. 

Then  the  struggle  ended  and  the  old  woman  and 
the  German  fell  down  exhausted  in  the  road.  The 
refugees  gathered  about  and  waited.  They  thought 
something  more  was  going  to  happen,  knew  in  fact 
something  more  would  happen.  The  feeling  they  had 
persisted,  you  see,  and  they  huddled  together  and  per 
haps  whimpered  a  little. 

What  happened  is  the  whole  point  of  the  story. 
The  woman  in  the  train  explained  it  very  clearly.  She 
said  that  the  two  souls,  after  struggling,  went  back 
into  the  two  bodies,  but  that  the  soul  of  the  old 
woman  went  into  the  body  of  the  German  and  the  soul 
of  the  German  into  the  body  of  the  old  woman. 

After  that,  of  course,  everything  was  quite  simple. 
The  German  sat  down  by  the  road  and  began  shaking 
his  head  and  saying  he  wanted  to  be  let  alone,  de 
clared  that  all  he  wanted  in  the  world  was  to  be  let 
alone,  and  the  Polish  woman  took  papers  out  of  his 
pocket  and  began  driving  her  companions  back  along 
the  road,  driving  them  harshly  and  brutally  along, 
and  when  they  grew  weary  pushing  them  with  her 
hands. 

There  was  more  of  the  story  after  that.  The 
woman's  lover,  who  had  been  a  school-teacher,  took 
the  papers  and  got  out  of  the  country,  taking  his 
sweetheart  with  him.  But  my  mind  has  forgotten  the 


WAR  167 

details.  I  only  remember  the  German  sitting  by  the 
road  and  muttering  that  he  wanted  to  be  let  alone, 
and  the  old  tired  mother-in-Poland  saying  the  harsh 
words  and  forcing  her  weary  companions  to  march 
through  the  night  back  into  their  own  country. 


MOTHERHOOD 

"DELOW  the  hill  there  was  a  swamp  in  which  cattails 
grew.  The  wind  rustled  the  dry  leaves  of  a  wal 
nut  tree  that  grew  on  top  of  the  hill. 

She  went  beyond  the  tree  to  where  the  grass  was 
long  and  matted.  In  the  farmhouse  a  door  bangs  and 
in  the  road  before  the  house  a  dog  barked. 

For  a  long  time  there  was  no  sound.  Then  a  wagon 
came  jolting  and  bumping  over  the  frozen  road.  The 
little  noises  ran  along  the  ground  to  where  she  was 
lying  on  the  grass  and  seemed  like  fingers  playing  over 
her  body.  A  fragrance  arose  from  her.  It  took  a  long 
time  for  the  wagon  to  pass. 

Then  another  sound  broke  the  stillness.  A  young 
man  from  a  neighboring  farm  came  stealthily  across  a 
field  and  climbed  a  fence.  He  also  came  to  the  hill  but 
for  a  time  did  not  see  her  lying  almost  at  his  feet.  He 
looked  toward  the  house  and  stood  with  hands  in 
pockets,  stamping  on  the  frozen  ground  like  a  horse. 

Then  he  knew  she  was  there.  The  aroma  of  her 
crept  into  his  consciousness. 

He  ran  to  kneel  beside  her  silent  figure.  Every 
thing  was  different  than  it  had  been  when  they  crept 
to  the  hill  on  the  other  evenings.  The  time  of  talking 

168 


MOTHERHOOD  169 

and  waiting  was  over.  She  was  different.  He  grew 
bold  and  put  his  hands  on  her  face,  her  neck,  her 
breasts,  her  hips.  There  was  a  strange  new  firmness 
and  hardness  to  her  body.  When  he  kissed  her  lips 
she  did  not  move  and  for  a  moment  he  was  afraid. 
Then  courage  came  and  he  went  down  to  lie  with  her. 

He  had  been  a  farm  boy  all  his  life  and  had  plowed 
many  acres  of  rich  black  land. 

He  became  sure  of  himself. 

He  plowed  her  deeply. 

He  planted  the  seeds  of  a  son  in  the  warm  rich  quiv 
ering  soil. 

*  *  * 

She  carried  the  seeds  of  a  son  within  herself.  On 
winter  evenings  she  went  along  a  path  at  the  foot  of  a 
small  hill  and  turned  up  the  hill  to  a  barn  where  she 
milked  cows.  She  was  large  and  strong.  Her  legs 
went  swinging  along.  The  son  within  her  went  swing 
ing  along. 

He  learned  the  rhythm  of  little  hills. 

He  learned  the  rhythm  of  flat  places. 

He  learned  the  rhythm  of  legs  walking. 

He  learned  the  rhythm  of  firm  strong  hands  pulling 
at  the  teats  of  cows. 

*••*•/•* 

There  was  a  field  that  was  barren  and  filled  with 
stones.  In  the  spring  when  the  warm  nights  came  and 
when  she  was  big  with  him  she  went  to  the  fields.  The 


170      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

heads  of  little  stones  stuck  out  of  the  ground  like  the 
heads  of  buried  children.  The  field,  washed  with 
moonlight,  sloped  gradually  downward  to  a  murmur 
ing  brook.  A  few  sheep  went  among  the  stones  nib 
bling  the  sparse  grass. 

A  thousand  children  were  buried  in  the  barren  field. 
They  struggled  to  come  out  of  the  ground.  They 
struggled  to  come  to  her.  The  brook  ran  over  stones 
and  its  voice  cried  out.  For  a  long  time  she  stayed 
in  the  field,  shaken  with  sorrow. 

She  arose  from  her  seat  on  a  large  stone  and  went  to 
the  farmhouse.  The  voices  of  the  darkness  cried  to 
her  as  she  went  along  a  lane  and  past  a  silent  barn. 

Within  herself  only  the  one  child  struggled.  When 
she  got  into  bed  his  heels  beat  upon  the  walls  of  his 
prison.  She  lay  still  and  listened.  Only  one  small 
voice  seemed  coming  to  her  out  of  the  silence  of  the 
night. 


OUT  OF  NOWHERE  INTO  NOTHING. 
I 

T>  OSALIND  WESCOTT,  a  tall  strong  looking 
woman  of  twenty-seven,  was  walking  on  the  rail 
road  track  near  the  town  of  Willow  Springs,  Iowa. 
It  was  about  four  in  the  afternoon  of  a  day  in  August, 
and  the  third  day  since  she  had  come  home  to  her 
native  town  from  Chicago,  where  she  was  employed. 

At  that  time  Willow  Springs  was  a  town  of  about 
three  thousand  people.  It  has  grown  since.  There 
was  a  public  square  with  the  town  hall  in  the  centre 
and  about  the  four  sides  of  the  square  and  facing  it 
were  the  merchandising  establishments.  The  public 
square  was  bare  and  grassless,  and  out  of  it  ran  streets 
of  frame  houses,  long  straight  streets  that  finally  be 
came  country  roads  running  away  into  the  flat  prairie 
country. 

Although  she  had  told  everyone  that  she  had  merely 
come  home  for  a  short  visit  because  she  was  a  little 
homesick,  and  although  she  wanted  in  particular  to 
have  a  talk  with  her  mother  in  regard  to  a  certain 
matter,  Rosalind  had  been  unable  to  talk  with  anyone. 
Indeed  she  had  found  it  difficult  to  stay  in  the  house 
with  her  mother  and  father  and  all  the  time,  day  and 

171 


172      THE     TRIUMPH      OF     THE      EGG 

night,  she  was  haunted  by  a  desire  to  get  out  of  town. 
As  she  went  along  the  railroad  tracks  in  the  hot  after 
noon  sunshine  she  kept  scolding  herself,  "I've  grown 
moody  and  no  good.  If  I  want  to  do  it  why  don't  I 
just  go  ahead  and  not  make  a  fuss,11  she  thought. 

For  two  miles  the  railroad  tracks,  eastward  out  of 
Willow  Springs,  went  through  corn  fields  on  a  flat 
plain.  Then  there  was  a  little  dip  in  the  land  and  a 
bridge  over  Willow  Creek.  The  Creek  was  altogether 
dry  now  but  trees  grew  along  the  edge  of  the  grey 
streak  of  cracked  mud  that  in  the  fall,  winter  and 
spring  would  be  the  bed  of  the  stream.  Rosalind  left 
the  tracks  and  went  to  sit  under  one  of  the  trees.  Her 
cheeks  were  flushed  and  her  forehead  wet.  When  she 
took  off  her  hat  her  hair  fell  down  in  disorder  and 
strands  of  it  clung  to  her  hot  wet  face.  She  sat  in 
what  seemed  a  kind  of  great  bowl  on  the  sides  of 
which  the  corn  grew  rank.  Before  her  and  following 
the  bed  of  the  stream  there  was  a  dusty  path  along 
which  cows  came  at  evening  from  distant  pastures.  A 
great  pancake  formed  of  cow  dung  lay  nearby.  It  was 
covered  with  grey  dust  and  over  it  crawled  shiny  black 
beetles.  They  were  rolling  the  dung  into  balls  in  prep 
aration  for  the  germination  of  a  new  generation  of 
beetles. 

Rosalind  had  come  on  the  visit  to  her  home  town  at 
a  time  of  the  year  when  everyone  wished  to  escape 
from  the  hot  dusty  place.  No  one  had  expected  her  and 


OUT    OF    NOWHERE    INTO    NOTHING      173 

she  had  not  written  to  announce  her  coming.  One  hot 
morning  in  Chicago  she  had  got  out  of  bed  and  had 
suddenly  begun  packing  her  bag,  and  on  that  same 
evening  there  she  was  in  Willow  Springs,  in  the  house 
where  she  had  lived  until  her  twenty-first  year,  among 
her  own  people.  She  had  come  up  from  the  station  in 
the  hotel  bus  and  had  walked  into  the  Wescott  house 
unannounced.  Her  father  was  at  the  pump  by  the 
kitchen  door  and  her  mother  came  into  the  living  room 
to  greet  her  wearing  a  soiled  kitchen  apron.  Every 
thing  in  the  house  was  just  as  it  always  had  been.  "I 
just  thought  I  would  come  home  for  a  few  days,"  she 
said,  putting  down  her  bag  and  kissing  her  mother. 

Ma  and  Pa  Wescott  had  been  glad  to  see  their 
daughter.  On  the  evening  of  her  arrival  they  were 
excited  and  a  special  supper  was  prepared.  After 
supper  Pa  Wescott  went  up  town  as  usual,  but  he 
stayed  only  a  few  minutes.  "I  just  want  to  run  to  the 
postoffice  and  get  the  evening  paper,"  he  said  apolo 
getically.  Rosalind's  mother  put  on  a  clean  dress  and 
they  all  sat  in  the  darkness  on  the  front  porch.  There 
was  talk,  of  a  kind.  "Is  it  hot  in  Chicago  now?  I'm 
going  to  do  a  good  deal  of  canning  this  fall.  I  thought 
later  I  would  send  you  a  box  of  canned  fruit.  Do  you 
live  in  the  same  place  on  the  North  Side?  It  must  be 
nice  in  the  evening  to  be  able  to  walk  down  to  the  park 
by  the  lake." 


174      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

Rosalind  sat  under  the  tree  near  the  railroad  bridge 
two  miles  from  Willow  Springs  and  watched  the 
tumble  bugs  at  work.  Her  whole  body  was  hot  from 
the  walk  in  the  sun  and  the  thin  dress  she  wore  clung 
to  her  legs.  It  was  being  soiled  by  the  dust  on  the 
grass  under  the  tree. 

She  had  run  away  from  town  and  from  her  mother's 
house.  All  during  the  three  days  of  her  visit  she  had 
been  doing  that.  She  did  not  go  from  house  to  house 
to  visit  her  old  schoolgirl  friends,  the  girls  who  unlike 
herself  had  stayed  in  Willow  Springs,  had  got  married 
and  settled  down  there.  When  she  saw  one  of  these 
women  on  the  street  in  the  morning,  pushing  a  baby 
carriage  and  perhaps  followed  by  a  small  child,  she 
stopped.  There  was  a  few  minutes  of  talk.  "It's  hot. 
Do  you  live  in  the  same  place  in  Chicago?  My  hus 
band  and  I  hope  to  take  the  children  and  go  away  for 
a  week  or  two.  It  must  be  nice  in  Chicago  where  you 
are  so  near  the  lake."  Rosalind  hurried  away. 

All  the  hours  of  her  visit  to  her  mother  and  to  her 
home  town  had  been  spent  in  an  effort  to  hurry  away. 

From  what?  Rosalind  defended  herself.  There 
was  something  she  had  come  from  Chicago  hoping  to 
be  able  to  say  to  her  mother.  Did  she  really  want  to 
talk  with  her  about  things?  Had  she  thought,  by 
again  breathing  the  air  of  her  home  town,  to  get 
strength  to  face  life  and  its  difficulties? 

There  was  no  point  in  her  taking  the  hot  uncom- 


OUT    OF     NOWHERE     INTO    NOTHING      175 

fortable  trip  from  Chicago  only  to  spend  her  days 
walking  in  dusty  country  roads  or  between  rows  of 
cornfields  in  the  stifling  heat  along  the  railroad  tracks. 

"I  must  have  hoped.  There  is  a  hope  that  cannot 
be  fulfilled,"  she  thought  vaguely. 

Willow  Springs  was  a  rather  meaningless,  dreary 
town,  one  of  thousands  of  such  towns  in  Indiana,  Illi 
nois,  Wisconsin,  Kansas,  Iowa,  but  her  mind  made  it 
more  dreary. 

She  sat  under  the  tree  by  the  dry  bed  of  Willow 
Creek  thinking  of  the  street  in  town  where  her  mother 
and  father  lived,  where  she  had  lived  until  she  had 
become  a  woman.  It  was  only  because  of  a  series  of 
circumstances  she  did  not  live  there  now.  Her  one 
brother,  ten  years  older  than  herself,  had  married  and 
moved  to  Chicago.  He  had  asked  her  to  come  for  a 
visit  and  after  she  got  to  the  city  she  stayed.  Her 
brother  was  a  traveling  salesman  and  spent  a  good 
deal  of  time  away  from  home.  uWhy  don't  you  stay 
here  with  Bess  and  learn  stenography,"  he  asked.  "If 
you  don't  want  to  use  it  you  don't  have  to.  Dad  can 
look  out  for  you  all  right.  I  just  thought  you  might 

like  to  learn." 

*  *  * 

"That  was  six  years  ago,"  Rosalind  thought  wearily. 
"I've  been  a  city  woman  for  six  years."  Her  mind 
hopped  about.  Thoughts  came  and  went.  In  the  city, 
after  she  became  a  stenographer,  something  for  a  time 


176      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

awakened  her.  She  wanted  to  be  an  actress  and  went 
in  the  evening  to  a  dramatic  school.  In  an  office  where 
she  worked  there  was  a  young  man,  a  clerk.  They 
went  out  together,  to  the  theatre  or  to  walk  in  the  park 
in  the  evening.  They  kissed. 

Her  thoughts  came  sharply  back  to  her  mother  and 
father,  to  her  home  in  Willow  Springs,  to  the  street  in 
which  she  had  lived  until  her  twenty-first  year. 

It  was  but  an  end  of  a  street.  From  the  windows 
at  the  front  of  her  mother's  house  six  other  houses 
could  be  seen.  How  well  she  knew  the  street  and  the 
people  in  the  houses !  Did  she  know  them  ?  From  her 
eighteenth  and  until  her  twenty-first  year  she  had 
stayed  at  home,  helping  her  mother  with  the  house 
work,  waiting  for  something.  Other  young  women  in 
town  waited  just  as  she  did.  They  like  herself  had 
graduated  from  the  town  highschool  and  their  parents 
had  no  intention  of  sending  them  away  to  college. 
There  was  nothing  to  do  but  wait.  Some  of  the  young 
women — their  mothers  and  their  mothers'  friends  still 
spoke  of  them  as  girls — had  young  men  friends  who 
came  to  see  them  on  Sunday  and  perhaps  also  on 
Wedflcsday  or  Thursday  evenings.  Others  joined  the 
church,  went  to  prayer  meetings,  became  active  mem 
bers  of  some  church  organization.  They  fussed  about. 

Rosalind  had  done  none  of  these  things.  All  through 
those  three  trying  years  in  Willow  Springs  she  had  just 
waited.  In  the  morning  there  was  the  work  to  do  in 


OUT    OF    NOWHERE    INTO    NOTHING      177 

the  house  and  then,  in  some  way,  the  day  wore  itself 
away.  In  the  evening  her  father  went  up  town  and 
she  sat  with  her  mother.  Nothing  much  was  said. 
After  she  had  gone  to  bed  she  lay  awake,  strangely 
nervous,  eager  for  something  to  happen  that  never 
would  happen.  The  noises  of  the  Wescott  house  cut 
across  her  thoughts.  What  things  went  through  her 
mind! 

There  was  a  procession  of  people  always  going  away 
from  her.  Sometimes  she  lay  on  her  belly  at  the  edge 
of  a  ravine.  Well  it  was  not  a  ravine.  It  had  two 
walls  of  marble  and  on  the  marble  face  of  the  walls 
strange  figures  were  carved.  Broad  steps  led  down — 
always  down  and  away.  People  walked  along  the 
steps,  between  the  marble  walls,  going  down  and  away 
from  her. 

What  people!  Who  were  they?  Where  did  they 
come  from?  Where  were  they  going?  She  was  not 
asleep  but  wide  awake.  Her  bedroom  was  dark.  The 
walls  and  ceiling  of  the  room  receded.  She  seemed 
to  hang  suspended  in  space,  above  the  ravine — the 
ravine  with  walls  of  white  marble  over  which  strange 
beautiful  lights  played. 

The  people  who  went  down  the  broad  steps  and 
away  into  infinite  distance — they  were  men  and  women. 
Sometime  a  young  girl  like  herself  but  in  some  way 
sweeter  and  purer  than  herself,  passed  alone.  The 
young  girl  walked  with  a  swinging  stride,  going  swiftly 


178       THE      TRIUMPH       OF      THE      EGG 

and  freely  like  a  beautiful  young  animal.  Her  legs 
and  arms  were  like  the  slender  top  branches  of  trees 
swaying  in  a  gentle  wind.  She  also  went  down  and 
away. 

Others  followed  along  the  marble  steps.  Young 
boys  walked  alone.  A  dignified  old  man  followed  by  a 
sweet  faced  woman  passed.  What  a  remarkable  man ! 
One  felt  infinite  power  in  his  old  frame.  There  were 
deep  wrinkles  in  his  face  and  his  eyes  were  sad.  One 
felt  he  knew  everything  about  life  but  had  kept  some 
thing  very  precious  alive  in  himself.  It  was  that  pre 
cious  thing  that  made  the  eyes  of  the  woman  who  fol 
lowed  him  burn  with  a  strange  fire.  They  also  went 
down  along  the  steps  and  away. 

Down  and  away  along  the  steps  went  others — how 
many  others,  men  and  women,  boys  and  girls,  single 
old  men,  old  women  who  leaned  on  sticks  and  hobbled 
along. 

In  the  bed  in  her  father's  house  as  she  lay  awake 
Rosalind's  head  grew  light.  She  tried  to  clutch  at 
something,  understand  something. 

She  couldn't.  The  noises  of  the  house  cut  across  her 
waking  dream.  Her  father  was  at  the  pump  by  the 
kitchen  door.  He  was  pumping  a  pail  of  water.  In  a 
moment  he  would  bring  it  into  the  house  and  put  it  on 
a  box  by  the  kitchen  sink.  A  little  of  the  water  would 
slop  over  on  the  floor.  There  would  be  a  sound  like 
a  child's  bare  foot  striking  the  floor.  Then  her  father 


OUT    OF    NOWHERE    INTO    NOTHING      179 

would  go  to  wind  the  clock.  The  day  was  done.  Pres 
ently  there  would  be  the  sound  of  his  heavy  feet  on  the 
floor  of  the  bedroom  above  and  he  would  get  into  bed 
to  lie  beside  Rosalind's  mother. 

The  night  noises  of  her  father's  house  had  been  in 
some  way  terrible  to  the  girl  in  the  years  when  she  was 
becoming  a  woman.  After  chance  had  taken  her  to 
the  city  she  never  wanted  to  think  of  them  again.  Even 
in  Chicago  where  the  silence  of  nights  was  cut  and 
slashed  by  a  thousand  noises,  by  automobiles  whirling 
through  the  streets,  by  the  belated  footsteps  of  men 
homeward  bound  along  the  cement  sidewalks  after 
midnight,  by  the  shouts  of  quarreling  men  drunk  on 
summer  nights,  even  in  the  great  hubbub  of  noises  there 
was  comparative  quiet.  The  insistent  clanging  noises 
of  the  city  nights  were  not  like  the  homely  insistent 
noises  of  her  father's  house.  Certain  terrible  truths 
about  life  did  not  abide  in  them,  they  did  not  cling  so 
closely  to  life  and  did  not  frighten  as  did  the  noises  in 
the  one  house  on  the  quiet  street  in  the  town  of  Willow 
Springs.  How  often,  there  in  the  city,  in  the  midst  of 
the  great  noises  she  had  fought  to  escape  the  little 
noises!  Her  father's  feet  were  on  the  steps  leading 
into  the  kitchen.  Now  he  was  putting  the  pail  of 
water  on  the  box  by  the  kitchen  sink.  Upstairs  her 
mother's  body  fell  heavily  into  bed.  The  visions  of 
the  great  marble-lined  ravine  down  along  which  went 
the  beautiful  people  flew  away.  There  was  the  little 


180      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

slap  of  water  on  the  kitchen  floor.  It  was  like  a  child's 
bare  foot  striking  the  floor.  Rosalind  wanted  to  cry 
out.  Her  father  closed  the  kitchen  door.  Now  he 
was  winding  the  clock.  In  a  moment  his  feet  would 
be  on  the  stairs — 

There  were  six  houses  to  be  seen  from  the  windows 
of  the  Wescott  house.  In  the  winter  smoke  from  six 
brick  chimneys  went  up  into  the  sky.  There  was  one 
house,  the  next  one  to  the  Wescott's  place,  a  small 
frame  affair,  in  which  lived  a  man  who  was  thirty-five 
years  old  when  Rosalind  became  a  woman  of  twenty- 
one  and  went  away  to  the  city.  The  man  was  unmar 
ried  and  his  mother,  who  had  been  his  housekeeper, 
had  died  during  the  year  in  which  Rosalind  graduated 
from  the  high  school.  After  that  the  man  lived  alone. 
He  took  his  dinner  and  supper  at  the  hotel,  down 
town  on  the  square,  but  he  got  his  own  breakfast,  made 
his  own  bed  and  swept  out  his  own  house.  Sometimes 
he  walked  slowly  along  the  street  past  the  Wescott 
house  when  Rosalind  sat  alone  on  the  front  porch.  He 
raised  his  hat  and  spoke  to  her.  Their  eyes  met.  He 
had  a  long,  hawk-like  nose  and  his  hair  was  long  and 
uncombed. 

Rosalind  thought  about  him  sometimes.  It  bothered 
her  a  little  that  he  sometimes  went  stealing  softly,  as 
though  not  to  disturb  her,  across  her  daytime  fancies. 

As  she  sat  that  day  by  the  dry  creek  bed  Rosalind 
thought  about  the  bachelor,  who  had  now  passed  the 


OUT    OF     NOWHERE     INTO     NOTHING      l8l 

age  of  forty  and  who  lived  on  the  street  where  she  had 
lived  during  her  girlhood.  His  house  was  separated 
from  the  Wescott  house  by  a  picket  fence.  Sometimes 
in  the  morning  he  forgot  to  pull  his  blinds  and  Rosa 
lind,  busy  with  the  housework  in  her  father's  house, 
had  seen  him  walking  about  in  his  underwear.  It 
was — uh,  one  could  not  think  of  it. 

The  man's  name  was  Melville  Stoner.  He  had  a 
small  income  and  did  not  have  to  work.  On  some 
days  he  did  not  leave  his  house  and  go  to  the  hotel  for 
his  meals  but  sat  all  day  in  a  chair  with  his  nose  buried 
in  a  book. 

There  was  a  house  on  the  street  occupied  by  a  widow 
who  raised  chickens.  Two  or  three  of  her  hens  were 
what  the  people  who  lived  on  the  street  called  'high 
flyers.'  They  flew  over  the  fence  of  the  chicken  yard 
and  escaped  and  almost  always  they  came  at  once  into 
the  yard  of  the  bachelor.  The  neighbors  laughed 
about  it.  It  was  significant,  they  felt.  When  the  hens 
had  come  into  the  yard  of  the  bachelor,  Stoner,  the 
widow  with  a  stick  in  her  hand  ran  after  them.  Mel 
ville  Stoner  came  out  of  his  house  and  stood  on  a  little 
porch  in  front.  The  widow  ran  through  the  front  gate 
waving  her  arms  wildly  and  the  hens  made  a  great 
racket  and  flew  over  the  fence.  They  ran  down  the 
street  toward  the  widow's  house.  For  a  moment  she 
stood  by  the  Stoner  gate.  In  the  summer  time  when 
the  windows  of  the  Wescott  house  were  open  Rosalind 


182      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

could  hear  what  the  man  and  woman  said  to  each 
other.  In  Willow  Springs  it  was  not  thought  proper 
for  an  unmarried  woman  to  stand  talking  to  an  un 
married  man  near  the  door  of  his  bachelor  establish 
ment.  The  widow  wanted  to  observe  the  conventions. 
Still  she  did  linger  a  moment,  her  bare  arm  resting  on 
the  gate  post.  What  bright  eager  little  eyes  she  had! 
"If  those  hens  of  mine  bother  you  I  wish  you  would 
catch  them  and  kill  them,"  she  said  fiercely.  "I  am 
always  glad  to  see  them  coming  along  the  road,1'  Mel 
ville  Stoner  replied,  bowing.  Rosalind  thought  he  was 
making  fun  of  the  widow.  She  liked  him  for  that. 
"I'd  never  see  you  if  you  did  not  have  to  come  here 
after  your  hens.  Don't  let  anything  happen  to  them," 
he  said,  bowing  again. 

For  a  moment  the  man  and  woman  lingered  looking 
into  each  other's  eyes.  From  one  of  the  windows  of 
the  Wcscott  house  Rosalind  watched  the  woman. 
Nothing  more  was  said.  There  was  something  about 
the  woman  she  had  not  understood — well  the  widow's 
senses  were  being  fed.  The  developing  woman  in  the 
house  next  door  had  hated  her. 

*  *  * 

Rosalind  jumped  up  from  under  the  tree  and  climbed 
wp  the  railroad  embankment.  She  thanked  the  gods 
ahe  had  been  lifted  out  of  the  life  of  the  town  of 
Willow  Springs  and  that  chance  had  set  her  down  to 
live  in  a  city.  "Chicago  is  far  from  beautiful.  People 


OUT    OF     NOWHERE    INTO     NOTHING      183 

say  it  is  just  a  big  noisy  dirty  village  and  perhaps  that's 
what  it  is,  but  there  is  something  alive  there/'  she 
thought.  In  Chicago,  or  at  least  during  the  last  two 
or  three  years  of  her  life  there,  Rosalind  felt  she  had 
learned  a  little  something  of  life.  She  had  read  books 
for  one  thing,  such  books  as  did  not  come  to  Willow 
Springs,  books  that  Willow  Springs  knew  nothing 
about,  she  had  gone  to  hear  the  Symphony  Orchestra, 
she  had  begun  to  understand  something  of  the  possi 
bility  of  line  and  color,  had  heard  intelligent,  under 
standing  men  speak  of  these  things.  In  Chicago,  in 
the  midst  of  the  twisting  squirming  millions  of  men  and 
women  there  were  voices.  One  occasionally  saw  men 
or  at  least  heard  of  the  existence  of  men  who,  like  the 
beautiful  old  man  who  had  walked  away  down  the 
marble  stairs  in  the  vision  of  her  girlhood  nights,  had 
kept  some  precious  thing  alive  in  themselves. 

And  there  was  something  else — it  was  the  most  im 
portant  thing  of  all.  For  the  last  two  years  of  her  life 
in  Chicago  she  had  spent  hours,  days  in  the  presence  of 
a  man  to  whom  she  could  talk.  The  talks  had  awak 
ened  her.  She  felt  they  had  made  her  a  woman,  had 
matured  her. 

"I  know  what  these  people  here  in  Willow  Springs 
are  like  and  what  I  would  have  been  like  had  I  stayed 
here,"  she  thought.  She  felt  relieved  and  almost 
happy.  She  had  come  home  at  a  crisis  of  her  own  life 
hoping  to  be  able  to  talk  a  little  with  her  mother,  or 


184      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

if  talk  proved  impossible  hoping  to  get  some  sense  of 
sisterhood  by  being  in  her  presence.  She  had  thought 
there  was  something  buried  away,  deep  within  every 
woman,  that  at  a  certain  call  would  run  out  to  other 
women.  Now  she  felt  that  the  hope,  the  dream,  the 
desire  she  had  cherished  was  altogether  futile.  Sitting 
in  the  great  flat  bowl  in  the  midst  of  the  corn  lands  two 
miles  from  her  home  town  where  no  breath  of  air 
stirred  and  seeing  the  beetles  at  their  work  of  preparing 
to  propagate  a  new  generation  of  beetles,  while  she 
thought  of  the  town  and  its  people,  had  settled  some 
thing  for  her.  Her  visit  to  Willow  Springs  had  come 
to  something  after  all. 

Rosalind's  figure  had  still  much  of  the  spring  and 
swing  of  youth  in  it.  Her  legs  were  strong  and  her 
shoulders  broad.  She  went  swinging  along  the  rail 
road  track  toward  town,  going  westward.  The  sun 
had  begun  to  fall  rapidly  down  the  sky.  Away  over 
the  tops  of  the  corn  in  one  of  the  great  fields  she  could 
see  in  the  distance  to  where  a  man  was  driving  a  motor 
along  a  dusty  road.  The  wheels  of  the  car  kicked  up 
dust  through  which  the  sunlight  played.  The  floating 
cloud  of  dust  became  a  shower  of  gold  that  settled 
down  over  the  fields.  "When  a  woman  most  wants 
what  is  best  and  truest  in  another  woman,  even  in  her 
own  mother,  she  isn't  likely  to  find  it,"  she  thought 
grimly.  "There  are  certain  things  every  woman  has 
to  find  out  for  herself,  there  is  a  road  she  must  travel 


OUT    OF    NOWHERE    INTO    NOTHING      185 

alone.  It  may  only  lead  to  some  more  ugly  and  terrible 
place,  but  if  she  doesn't  want  death  to  overtake  her  and 
live  within  her  while  her  body  is  still  alive  she  must 
set  out  on  that  road." 

Rosalind  walked  for  a  mile  along  the  railroad  track 
and  then  stopped.  A  freight  train  had  gone  eastward 
as  she  sat  under  the  tree  by  the  creek  bed  and  now, 
there  beside  the  tracks,  in  the  grass  was  the  body  of  a 
man.  It  lay  still,  the  face  buried  in  the  deep  burned 
grass.  At  once  she  concluded  the  man  had  been  struck 
and  killed  by  the  train.  The  body  had  been  thrown 
thus  aside.  All  her  thoughts  went  away  and  she  turned 
and  started  to  tiptoe  away,  stepping  carefully  along  the 
railroad  ties,  making  no  noise.  Then  she  stopped 
again.  The  man  in  the  grass  might  not  be  dead,  only 
hurt,  terribly  hurt.  It  would  not  do  to  leave  him  there. 
She  imagined  him  mutilated  but  still  struggling  for  life 
and  herself  trying  to  help  him.  She  crept  back  along 
the  ties.  The  man's  legs  were  not  twisted  and  beside 
him  lay  his  hat.  It  was  as  though  he  had  put  it  there 
before  lying  down  to  sleep,  but  a  man  did  not  sleep  with 
his  face  buried  in  the  grass  in  such  a  hot  uncomforable 
place.  She  drew  nearer.  "O,  you  Mister,"  she  called, 
"O,  you — are  you  hurt?" 

The  man  in  the  grass  sat  up  and  looked  at  her.  He 
laughed.  It  was  Melville  Stoner,  the  man  of  whom  she 
had  just  been  thinking  and  in  thinking  of  whom  she  had 
come  to  certain  settled  conclusions  regarding  the  fu- 


1 86      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

tility  of  her  visit  to  Willow  Springs.  He  got  to  his 
feet  and  picked  up  his  hat.  "Well,  hello,  Miss  Rosa 
lind  Wescott,"  he  said  heartily.  He  climbed  a  small 
embankment  and  stood  beside  her.  "I  knew  you  were 
at  home  on  a  visit  but  what  are  you  doing  out  here?" 
he  asked  and  then  added,  "What  luck  this  is!  Now  I 
shall  have  the  privilege  of  walking  home  with  you. 
You  can  hardly  refuse  to  let  me  walk  with  you  after 
shouting  at  me  like  that." 

They  walked  together  along  the  tracks  he  with  his 
hat  in  his  hand.  Rosalind  thought  he  looked  like  a 
gigantic  bird,  an  aged  wise  old  bird,  "perhaps  a  vul 
ture"  she  thought.  For  a  time  he  was  silent  and  then 
he  began  to  talk,  explaining  his  lying  with  his  face 
buried  in  the  grass.  There  was  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes 
and  Rosalind  wondered  if  he  was  laughing  at  her  as 
she  had  seen  him  laugh  at  the  widow  who  owned  the 
hens. 

He  did  not  come  directly  to  the  point  and  Rosalind 
thought  it  strange  that  they  should  walk  and  talk  to 
gether.  At  once  his  words  interested  her.  He  was  so 
much  older  than  herself  and  no  doubt  wiser.  How 
vain  she  had  been  to  think  herself  so  much  more  know 
ing  than  all  the  people  of  Willow  Springs.  Here  was 
this  man  and  he  was  talking  and  his  talk  did  not  sound 
like  anything  she  had  ever  expected  to  hear  from  the 
lips  of  a  native  of  her  home  town.  "I  want  to  explain 
myself  but  we'll  wait  a  little.  For  years  I've  been 


OUT    OF    NOWHERE    INTO    NOTHING     187 

wanting  to  get  at  you,  to  talk  with  you,  and  this  is  my 
chance.  YouVe  been  away  now  five  or  six  years  and 
have  grown  into  womanhood. 

"You  understand  it's  nothing  specially  personal, 
my  wanting  to  get  at  you  and  understand  you  a  little," 
he  added  quickly.  "I'm  that  way  about  everyone. 
Perhaps  that's  the  reason  I  live  alone,  why  I've  never 
married  or  had  personal  friends.  I'm  too  eager.  It 
isn't  comfortable  to  others  to  have  me  about." 

Rosalind  was  caught  up  by  this  new  view  point  of 
the  man.  She  wondered.  In  the  distance  along  the 
tracks  the  houses  of  the  town  came  into  sight.  Mel 
ville  Stoner  tried  to  walk  on  one  of  the  iron  rails  but 
after  a  few  steps  lost  his  balance  and  fell  off.  His 
long  arms  whirled  about.  A  strange  intensity  of  mood 
and  feeling  had  come  over  Rosalind.  In  one  moment 
Melville  Stoner  was  like  an  old  man  and  then  he  was 
like  a  boy.  Being  with  him  made  her  mind,  that  had 
been  racing  all  afternoon,  race  faster  than  ever. 

When  he  began  to  talk  again  he  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  the  explanation  he  had  intended  making. 
"We've  lived  side  by  side  but  we've  hardly  spoken  to 
each  other,"  he  said.  "When  I  was  a  young  man  and 
you  were  a  girl  I  used  to  sit  in  the  house  thinking  of 
you.  We've  really  been  friends.  What  I  mean  is 
we've  had  the  same  thoughts." 

He  began  to  speak  of  life  in  the  city  where  she  had 
been  living,  condemning  it.  "It's  dull  and  stupid  here 


l88      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

but  in  the  city  you  have  your  own  kind  of  stupidity 
too,"  he  declared.  "I'm  glad  I  do  not  live  there." 

In  Chicago  when  she  had  first  gone  there  to  live  a 
thing  had  sometimes  happened  that  had  startled  Rosa 
lind.  She  knew  no  one  but  her  brother  and  his  wife 
and  was  sometimes  very  lonely.  When  she  could  no 
longer  bear  the  eternal  sameness  of  the  talk  in  her 
brother's  house  she  went  out  to  a  concert  or  to  the 
theatre.  Once  or  twice  when  she  had  no  money  to  buy 
a  theatre  ticket  she  grew  bold  and  walked  alone  in  the 
streets,  going  rapidly  along  without  looking  to  the 
right  or  left.  As  she  sat  in  the  theatre  or  walked  in 
the  street  an  odd  thing  sometimes  happened.  Some 
one  spoke  her  name,  a  call  came  to  her.  The  thing 
happened  at  a  concert  and  she  looked  quickly  about. 
All  the  faces  in  sight  had  that  peculiar,  half  bored,  half 
expectant  expression  one  grows  accustomed  to  seeing 
on  the  faces  of  people  listening  to  music.  In  the  entire 
theatre  no  one  seemed  aware  of  her.  On  the  street  or 
in  the  park  the  call  had  come  when  she  was  utterly 
alone.  It  seemed  to  come  out  of  the  air,  from  behind  a 
tree  in  the  park. 

And  now  as  she  walked  on  the  railroad  tracks  with 
Melville  Stoner  the  call  seemed  to  come  from  him. 
He  walked  along  apparently  absorbed  with  his  own 
thoughts,  the  thoughts  he  was  trying  to  find  words  to 
express.  His  legs  were  long  and  he  walked  with  a 
queer  loping  gait.  The  idea  of  some  great  bird,  per- 


OUT    OF     NOWHERE     INTO    NOTHING      189 

haps  a  sea-bird  stranded  far  inland,  stayed  in  Rosa 
lind's  mind  but  the  call  did  not  come  from  the  bird  part 
of  him.  There  was  something  else,  another  person 
ality  hidden  away.  Rosalind  fancied  the  call  came  this 
time  from  a  young  boy,  from  such  another  clear-eyed 
boy  as  she  had  once  seen  in  her  waking  dreams  at  night 
in  her  father's  house,  from  one  of  the  boys  who  walked 
on  the  marble  stairway,  walked  down  and  away.  A 
thought  came  that  startled  her.  "The  boy  is  hidden 
away  in  the  body  of  this  strange  bird-like  man,"  she 
told  herself.  The  thought  awoke  fancies  within  her. 
It  explained  much  in  the  lives  of  men  and  women.  An 
expression,  a  phrase,  remembered  from  her  childhood 
when  she  had  gone  to  Sunday  School  in  Willow 
Springs,  came  back  to  her  mind.  "And  God  spoke  to 
me  out  of  a  burning  bush."  She  almost  said  the  words 
aloud. 

Melville  Stoner  loped  along,  walking  on  the  railroad 
ties  and  talking.  He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  in 
cident  of  his  lying  with  his  nose  buried  in  the  grass  and 
was  explaining  his  life  lived  alone  in  the  house  in  town. 
Rosalind  tried  to  put  her  own  thoughts  aside  and  to 
listen  to  his  words  but  did  not  succeed  very  well.  "I 
came  home  here  hoping  to  get  a  little  closer  to  life,  to 
get,  for  a  few  days,  out  of  the  company  of  a  man  so  I 
could  think  about  him.  I  fancied  I  could  get  what  I 
wanted  by  being  near  mother,  but  that  hasn't  worked. 
It  would  be  strange  if  I  got  what  I  am  looking  for  by 


190      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

this  chance  meeting  with  another  man,"  she  thought. 
Her  mind  went  on  recording  thoughts.  She  heard  the 
spoken  words  of  the  man  beside  her  but  her  own  mind 
went  on,  also  making  words.  Something  within  her 
self  felt  suddenly  relaxed  and  free.  Ever  since  she  had 
got  off  the  train  at  Willow  Springs  three  days  before 
there  had  been  a  great  tenseness.  Now  it  was  all  gone. 
She  looked  at  Melville  Stoner  who  occasionally  looked 
at  her.  There  was  something  in  his  eyes,  a  kind  of 
laughter — a  mocking  kind  of  laughter.  His  eyes  were 
grey,  of  a  cold  greyness,  like  the  eyes  of  a  bird. 

"It  has  come  into  my  mind — I  have  been  thinking — 
well  you  see  you  have  not  married  in  the  six  years 
since  you  went  to  live  in  the  city.  It  would  be  strange 
and  a  little  amusing  if  you  are  like  myself,  if  you  can 
not  marry  or  come  close  to  any  other  person,"  he  was 
saying. 

Again  he  spoke  of  the  life  he  led  in  his  house.  "I 
ftometimes  sit  in  my  house  all  day,  even  when  the 
weather  is  fine  outside,"  he  said.  "You  have  no  doubt 
seen  me  sitting  there.  Sometimes  I  forget  to  eat.  I 
read  books  all  day,  striving  to  forget  myself  and  then 
night  comes  and  I  cannot  sleep. 

"If  I  could  write  or  paint  or  make  music,  if  I  cared 
at  all  about  expressing  what  goes  on  in  my  mind  it 
would  be  different.  However,  I  would  not  write  as 
others  do.  I  would  have  but  little  to  say  about  what 
people  do.  What  do  they  do?  In  what  way  does  it 


OUT    OF    NOWHERE     INTO    NOTHING      19! 

matter?  Well  you  see  they  build  cities  such  as  you 
live  in  and  towns  like  Willow  Springs,  they  have  built 
this  railroad  track  on  which  we  are  walking,  they 
marry  and  raise  children,  commit  murders,  steal,  do 
kindly  acts.  What  does  it  matter?  You  see  we  are 
walking  here  in  the  hot  sun.  In  five  minutes  more  we 
will  be  in  town  and  you  will  go  to  your  house  and  I  to 
mine.  You  will  eat  supper  with  your  father  and 
mother.  Then  your  father  will  go  up  town  and  you 
and  your  mother  will  sit  together  on  the  front  porch. 
There  will  be  little  said.  Your  mother  will  speak  of 
her  intention  to  can  fruit.  Then  your  father  will  come 
home  and  you  will  all  go  to  bed.  Your  father  will 
pump  a  pail  of  water  at  the  pump  by  the  kitchen  door. 
He  will  carry  it  indoors  and  put  it  on  a  box  by  the 
kitchen  sink.  A  little  of  the  water  will  be  spilled.  It 
will  make  a  soft  little  slap  on  the  kitchen  floor — " 

"Ha!" 

Melville  Stoner  turned  and  looked  sharply  at  Rosa 
lind  who  had  grown  a  little  pale.  Her  mind  raced 
madly,  like  an  engine  out  of  control.  There  was  a 
kind  of  power  in  Melville  Stoner  that  frightened  her. 
By  the  recital  of  a  few  commonplace  facts  he  had 
suddenly  invaded  her  secret  places.  It  was  almost  as 
though  he  had  come  into  the  bedroom  in  her  father's 
house  where  she  lay  thinking.  He  had  in  fact  got  into 
her  bed.  He  laughed  again,  an  unmirthful  laugh. 
"I'll  tell  you  what,  we  know  little  enough  here  in 


192      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

America,  either  in  the  towns  or  in  the  cities,"  he  said 
rapidly.  "We  are  all  on  the  rush.  We  are  all  for 
action.  I  sit  still  and  think.  If  I  wanted  to  write  I'd 
do  something.  Yd  tell  what  everyone  thought.  It 
would  startle  people,  frighten  them  a  little,  eh?  I 
would  tell  you  what  you  have  been  thinking  this  after 
noon  while  you  walked  here  on  this  railroad  track 
with  me.  I  would  tell  you  what  your  mother  has  been 
thinking  at  the  same  time  and  what  she  would  like  to 
say  to  you." 

Rosalind's  face  had  grown  chalky  white  and  her 
hands  trembled.  They  got  off  the  railroad  tracks  and 
into  the  streets  of  Willow  Springs.  A  change  came 
over  Melville  Stoner.  Of  a  sudden  he  seemed  just  a 
man  of  forty,  a  little  embarrassed  by  the  presence  of 
the  younger  woman,  a  little  hesitant.  "I'm  going  to 
the  hotel  now  and  I  must  leave  you  here,"  he  said. 
His  feet  made  a  shuffling  sound  on  the  sidewalk.  "I 
intended  to  tell  you  why  you  found  me  lying  out  there 
with  my  face  buried  in  the  grass,"  he  said.  A  new 
quality  had  come  into  his  voice.  It  was  the  voice  of 
the  boy  who  had  called  to  Rosalind  out  of  the  body  of 
the  man  as  they  walked  and  talked  on  the  tracks. 
"Sometimes  I  can't  stand  my  life  here,"  he  said  almost 
fiercely  and  waved  his  long  arms  about.  "I'm  alone 
too  much.  I  grow  to  hate  myself.  I  have  to  run  out 
of  town." 

The  man  did  not  look  at  Rosalind  but  at  the  ground. 


OUT    OF     NOWHERE     INTO     NOTHING      193 

His  big  feet  continued  shuffling  nervously  about. 
"Once  in  the  winter  time  I  thought  I  was  going  in 
sane/'  he  said.  "I  happened  to  remember  an  orchard, 
five  miles  from  town  where  I  had  walked  one  day  in 
the  late  fall  when  the  pears  were  ripe.  A  notion  came 
into  my  head.  It  was  bitter  cold  but  I  walked  the  five 
miles  and  went  into  the  orchard.  The  ground  was 
frozen  and  covered  with  snow  but  I  brushed  the  snow 
aside.  I  pushed  my  face  into  the  grass.  In  the  fall 
when  I  had  walked  there  the  ground  was  covered  with 
ripe  pears.  A  fragrance  arose  from  them.  They 
were  covered  with  bees  that  crawled  over  them,  drunk, 
filled  with  a  kind  of  ecstacy.  I  had  remembered  the 
fragrance.  That's  why  I  went  there  and  put  my  face 
into  the  frozen  grass.  The  bees  were  in  an  ecstasy 
of  life  and  I  had  missed  life.  I  have  always  missed 
life.  It  always  goes  away  from  me.  I  always  im 
agined  people  walking  away.  In  the  spring  this  year 
I  walked  on  the  railroad  track  out  to  the  bridge  over 
Willow  Creek.  Violets  grew  in  the  grass.  At  that 
time  I  hardly  noticed  them  but  today  I  remembered. 
The  violets  were  like  the  people  who  walk  away  from 
me.  A  mad  desire  to  run  after  them  had  taken  pos 
session  of  me.  I  felt  like  a  bird  flying  through  space. 
A  conviction  that  something  had  escaped  me  and  that 
I  must  pursue  it  had  taken  possession  of  me." 

Melville  Stoner  stopped  talking.    His  face  also  had 
grown  white  and  his  hands  also  trembled.     Rosalind 


194 


THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 


had  an  almost  irresistible  desire  to  put  out  her  hand 
and  touch  his  hand.  She  wanted  to  shout,  crying — "I 
am  here.  I  am  not  dead.  I  am  alive."  Instead  she 
stood  in  silence,  staring  at  him,  as  the  widow  who 
owned  the  high  flying  hens  had  stared.  Melville 
Stoner  struggled  to  recover  from  the  ecstasy  into 
which  he  had  been  thrown  by  his  own  words.  He 
bowed  and  smiled.  "I  hope  you  are  in  the  habit  of 
walking  on  railroad  tracks,"  he  said.  "I  shall  in  the 
future  know  what  to  do  with  my  time.  When  you 
come  to  town  I  shall  camp  on  the  railroad  tracks.  No 
doubt,  like  the  violets,  you  have  left  your  fragrance 
out  there."  Rosalind  looked  at  him.  He  was  laugh 
ing  at  her  as  he  had  laughed  when  he  talked  to  the 
widow  standing  at  his  gate.  She  did  not  mind.  When 
he  had  left  her  she  went  slowly  through  the  streets. 
The  phrase  that  had  come  into  her  mind  as  they 
walked  on  the  tracks  came  back  and  she  said  it  over 
and  over.  uAnd  God  spoke  to  me  out  of  a  burning 
bush."  She  kept  repeating  the  phrase  until  she  got 
back  into  the  Wescott  house. 

*       *       * 

Rosalind  sat  on  the  front  porch  of  the  house  where 
her  girlhood  had  been  spent.  Her  father  had  not 
come  home  for  the  evening  meal.  He  was  a  dealer 
in  coal  and  lumber  and  owned  a  number  of  unpainted 
sheds  facing  a  railroad  siding  west  of  town.  There 
was  a  tiny  office  with  a  stove  and  a  desk  in  a  corner 


OUT    OF     NOWHERE     INTO    NOTHING      195 

by  a  window.  The  desk  was  piled  high  with  unan 
swered  letters  and  with  circulars  from  mining  and 
lumber  companies.  Over  them  had  settled  a  thick 
layer  of  coal  dust.  All  day  he  sat  in  his  office  looking 
like  an  animal  in  a  cage,  but  unlike  a  caged  animal  he 
was  apparently  not  discontented  and  did  not  grow 
restless.  He  was  the  one  coal  and  lumber  dealer  in 
Willow  Springs.  When  people  wanted  one  of  these 
commodities  they  had  to  come  to  him.  There  was  no 
other  place  to  go.  He  was  content.  In  the  morning 
as  soon  as  he  got  to  his  office  he  read  the  Des  Moines 
paper  and  then  if  no  one  came  to  disturb  him  he  sat 
all  day,  by  the  stove  in  winter  and  by  an  open  window 
through  the  long  hot  summer  days,  apparently  unaf 
fected  by  the  marching  change  of  seasons  pictured  in 
the  fields,  without  thought,  without  hope,  without  re 
gret  that  life  was  becoming  an  old  worn  out  thing  for 
him. 

In  the  Wescott  house  Rosalind's  mother  had  already 
begun  the  canning  of  which  she  had  several  times 
spoken.  She  was  making  gooseberry  jam.  Rosalind 
could  hear  the  pots  boiling  in  the  kitchen.  Her  mother 
walked  heavily.  With  the  coming  of  age  she  was 
beginning  to  grow  fat. 

The  daughter  was  weary  from  much  thinking.  It 
had  been  a  day  of  many  emotions.  She  took  off  her 
hat  and  laid  it  on  the  porch  beside  her.  Melville 
Stoner's  house  next  door  had  windows  that  were  like 


l$6      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

eyes  staring  at  her,  accusing  her.  "Well  now,  you  see, 
you  have  gone  too  fast,"  the  house  declared.  It 
sneered  at  her.  "You  thought  you  knew  about  people. 
After  all  you  knew  nothing.'*  Rosalind  held  her  head 
in  her  hands.  It  was  true  she  had  misunderstood. 
The  man  who  lived  in  the  house  was  no  doubt  like 
other  people  in  Willow  Springs.  He  was  not,  as  she 
had  smartly  supposed,  a  dull  citizen  of  a  dreary  town, 
one  who  knew  nothing  of  life.  Had  he  not  said  words 
that  had  startled  her,  torn  her  out  of  herself? 

Rosalind  had  an  experience  not  uncommon  to  tired 
nervous  people.  Her  mind,  weary  of  thinking,  did  not 
stop  thinking  but  went  on  faster  than  ever.  A  new  plane 
of  thought  was  reached.  Her  mind  was  like  a  flying 
machine  that  leaves  the  ground  and  leaps  into  the  air. 

It  took  hold  upon  an  idea  expressed  or  implied  in 
something  Melville  Stoner  had  said.  "In  every  hu 
man  being  there  are  two  voices,  each  striving  to  make 
itself  heard." 

A  new  world  of  thought  had  opened  itself  before 
her.  After  all  human  beings  might  be  understood. 
It  might  be  possible  to  understand  her  mother  and  her 
mother's  life,  her  father,  the  man  she  loved,  herself. 
There  was  the  voice  that  said  words.  Words  came 
forth  from  lips.  They  conformed,  fell  into  a  certain 
mold.  For  the  most  part  the  words  had  no  life  of 
their  own.  They  had  come  down  out  of  old  times 
and  many  of  them  were  no  doubt  once  strong  living 


OUT    OF    NOWHERE    INTO    NOTHING     197 

words,  coming  out  of  the  depth  of  people,  out  of  the 
bellies  of  people.  The  words  had  escaped  out  of  a 
shut-in  place.  They  had  once  expressed  living  truth. 
Then  they  had  gone  on  being  said,  over  and  over,  by 
the  lips  of  many  people,  endlessly,  wearily. 

She  thought  of  men  and  women  she  had  seen  to 
gether,  that  she  had  heard  talking  together  as  they 
sat  in  the  street  cars  or  in  apartments  or  walked  in  a 
Chicago  park.  Her  brother,  the  traveling  salesman, 
and  his  wife  had  talked  half  wearily  through  the  long 
evenings  she  had  spent  with  them  in  their  apartment. 
It  was  with  them  as  with  the  other  people.  A  thing  hap 
pened.  The  lips  said  certain  words  but  the  eyes  of  the 
people  said  other  words.  Sometimes  the  lips  expressed 
affection  while  hatred  shone  out  of  the  eyes.  Some 
times  it  was  the  other  way  about.  What  a  confusion ! 

It  was  clear  there  was  something  hidden  away 
within  people  that  could  not  get  itself  expressed  ex 
cept  accidentally.  One  was  startled  or  alarmed  and 
then  the  words  that  fell  from  the  lips  became  pregnant 
words,  words  that  lived. 

The  vision  that  had  sometimes  visited  her  in  her 
girlhood  as  she  lay  in  bed  at  night  came  back.  Again 
she  saw  the  people  on  the  marble  stairway,  going 
down  and  away,  into  infinity.  Her  own  mind  began 
to  make  words  that  struggled  to  get  themselves  ex 
pressed  through  her  lips.  She  hungered  for  someone 
to  whom  to  say  the  words  and  half  arose  to  go  to  her 


198      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

mother,  to  where  her  mother  was  making  gooseberry 
jam  in  the  kitchen,  and  then  sat  down  again.  "They 
were  going  down  into  the  hall  of  the  hidden  voices,1 
the  whispered  to  herself.  The  words  excited  and 
intoxicated  her  as  had  the  words  from  the  lips  of 
Melville  Stoner.  She  thought  of  herself  as  having 
quite  suddenly  grown  amazingly,  spiritually,  even  phy 
sically.  She  felt  relaxed,  young,  wonderfully  strong. 
She  imagined  herself  as  walking,  as  had  the  young  girl 
she  had  seen  in  the  vision,  with  swinging  arms  and 
shoulders,  going  down  a  marble  stairway — down  into 
the  hidden  places  in  people,  into  the  hall  of  the  little 
voices.  "I  shall  understand  after  this,  what  shall  I  not 
understand?"  she  asked  herself. 

"  Doubt  came  and  she  trembled  a  little.  As  she 
walked  with  him  on  the  railroad  track  Melville  Stoner 
had  gone  down  within  herself.  Her  body  was  a  house, 
through  the  door  of  which  he  had  walked.  He  had 
known  about  the  night  noises  in  her  father's  house — 
her  father  at  the  well  by  the  kitchen  door,  the  slap  of 
the  spilled  water  on  the  floor.  Even  when  she  was  a 
young  girl  and  had  thought  herself  alone  in  the  bed 
in  the  darkness  in  the  room  upstairs  in  the  house  be 
fore  which  she  now  sat,  she  had  not  been  alone.  The 
strange  bird-like  man  who  lived  in  the  house  next  door 
had  been  with  her,  in  her  room,  in  her  bed.  Years 
later  he  had  remembered  the  terrible  little  noises  ol 
the  house  and  had  known  how  they  had  terrified  her. 


OUT    OF    NOWHERE    INTO    NOTHING     199 

There  was  something  terrible  in  his  knowledge  too. 
He  had  spoken,  given  forth  his  knowledge,  bat  as  he 
did  so  there  was  laughter  in  his  eyes,  perhaps  a 
sneer. 

In  the  Wescott  house  the  sounds  of  housekeeping 
went  on.  A  man  who  had  been  at  work  in  a  distant 
field,  who  had  already  begun  his  fall  plowing,  was 
unhitching  his  horses  from  the  plow.  He  was  far 
away,  beyond  the  street's  end,  in  a  field  that  swelled 
a  little  out  of  the  plain.  Rosalind  stared.  The  man 
was  hitching  the  horses  to  a  wagon.  She  saw  him  as 
through  the  large  end  of  a  telescope.  He  would  drive 
the  horses  away  to  a  distant  farmhouse  and  put  them 
into  a  barn.  Then  he  would  go  into  a  house  where 
there  was  a  woman  at  work.  Perhaps  the  woman  like 
her  mother  would  be  making  gooseberry  jam.  He 
would  grunt  as  her  father  did  when  at  evening  he 
came  home  from  the  little  hot  office  by  the  railroad 
siding.  "Hello/'  he  would  say,  flady,  indifferently, 
stupidly.  Life  was  like  that. 

Rosalind  became  weary  of  thinking.  The  man  in 
the  distant  field  had  got  into  his  wagon  and  was  driv 
ing  away.  In  a  moment  there  would  be  nothing  left 
of  him  but  a  thin  cloud  of  dust  that  foaled  in  the  air. 
In  die  house  the  gooseberry  jam  had  boiled  long 
enough.  Her  mother  was  preparing  to  put  it  into 
gjass  jars.  The  operation  produced  a  new  litde  side 
current  of  sounds.  She  thought  again  of  MeMOe 


200      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

Stoner.  For  years  he  had  been  sitting,  listening  to 
sounds.  There  was  a  kind  of  madness  in  it. 

She  had  got  herself  into  a  half  frenzied  condition.  "I 
must  stop  it,"  she  told  herself.  "I  am  like  a  stringed 
instrument  on  which  the  strings  have  been  tightened  too 
much."  She  put  her  face  into  her  hands,  wearily. 

And  then  a  thrill  ran  through  her  body.  There  was 
a  reason  for  Melville  Stoner's  being  what  he  had  be 
come.  There  was  a  locked  gateway  leading  to  the 
marble  stairway  that  led  down  and  away,  into  infinity, 
into  the  hall  of  the  little  voices  and  the  key  to  the 
gateway  was  love.  Warmth  came  back  into  Rosalind's 
body.  * 'Understanding  need  not  lead  to  weariness," 
she  thought.  Life  might  after  all  be  a  rich,  a  trium 
phant  thing.  She  would  make  her  visit  to  Willow 
Springs  count  for  something  significant  in  her  life. 
For  one  thing  she  would  really  approach  her  mother, 
she  would  walk  into  her  mother's  life.  "It  will  be 
my  first  trip  down  the  marble  stairway,"  she  thought 
and  tears  came  to  her  eyes.  In  a  moment  her  father 
would  be  coming  home  for  the  evening  meal  but  after 
supper  he  would  go  away.  The  two  women  would  be 
alone  together.  Together  they  would  explore  a  little 
into  the  mystery  of  life,  they  would  find  sisterhood. 
The  thing  she  had  wanted  to  talk  about  with  another 
understanding  woman  could  be  talked  about  then. 
There  might  yet  be  a  beautiful  outcome  to  her  visit 
to  Willow  Springs  and  to  her  mother. 


OUT    OF    NOWHERE    INTO    NOTHING     2OI 


II 

The  story  of  Rosalind's  six  years  in  Chicago  is  the 
story  of  thousands  of  unmarried  women  who  work  in 
offices  in  the  city.  Necessity  had  not  driven  her  to 
work  nor  kept  her  at  her  task  and  she  did  not  think 
of  herself  as  a  worker,  one  who  would  always  be  a 
worker.  For  a  time  after  she  came  out  of  the  steno 
graphic  school  she  drifted  from  office  to  office,  acquir 
ing  always  more  skill,  but  with  no  particular  interest 
in  what  she  was  doing.  It  was  a  way  to  put  in  the 
long  days.  Her  father,  who  in  addition  to  the  coal 
and  lumber  yards  owned  three  farms,  sent  her  a  hun 
dred  dollars  a  month.  The  money  her  work  brought 
was  spent  for  clothes  so  that  she  dressed  better  than 
the  women  she  worked  with. 

Of  one  thing  she  was  quite  sure.  She  did  not  want 
to  return  to  Willow  Springs  to  live  with  her  father 
and  mother,  and  after  a  time  she  knew  she  could  not 
continue  living  with  her  brother  and  his  wife.  For 
the  first  time  she  began  seeing  the  city  that  spread  it 
self  out  before  her  eyes.  When  she  walked  at  the  noon 
hour  along  Michigan  Boulevard  or  went  into  a  res 
taurant  or  in  the  evening  went  home  in  the  street  car 
she  saw  men  and  women  together.  It  was  the  same 
when  on  Sunday  afternoons  in  the  summer  she  walked 


202      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

in  the  park  or  by  the  lake.  On  a  street  car  she  saw  a 
small  round-faced  woman  put  her  hand  into  the  hand 
of  her  male  companion.  Before  she  did  it  she  looked 
cautiously  about.  She  wanted  to  assure  herself  of 
something.  To  the  other  women  in  the  car,  to  Rosa 
lind  and  the  others  the  act  said  something.  It  was  as 
though  the  woman's  voice  had  said  aloud,  uHe  is  mine. 
Do  not  draw  too  close  to  him." 

There  was  no  doubt  that  Rosalind  was  awakening 
out  of  the  Willow  Springs  torpor  in  which  she  had 
lived  out  her  young  womanhood.  The  city  had  at 
least  done  that  for  her.  The  city  was  wide.  It  flung 
itself  out.  One  had  but  to  let  his  feet  go  thump, 
thump  upon  the  pavements  to  get  into  strange  streets, 
see  always  new  faces. 

On  Saturday  afternoon  and  all  day  Sunday  one  did 
not  work.  In  the  summer  it  was  a  time  to  go  to  places 
— to  the  park,  to  walk  among  the  strange  colorful 
crowds  in  Halsted  Street,  with  a  half  dozen  young 
people  from  the  office,  to  spend  a  day  on  the  sand 
dunes  at  the  foot  of  Lake  Michigan.  One  got  excited 
and  was  hungry,  hungry,  always  hungry — for  com 
panionship.  That  was  it.  One  wanted  to  possess 
something — a  man — to  take  him  along  on  jaunts,  be 
sure  of  him,  yes — own  him. 

She  read  books — always  written  by  men  or  by  man 
like  women.  There  was  an  essential  mistake  m  the 
viewpoint  of  life  set  forth  in  the  books.  The  mistake 


OUT    OF    NOWHERE    INTO    NOTHING     203 

was  always  being  made.  In  Rosalind's  time  it  grew 
more  pronounced.  Someone  had  got  hold  of  a  key 
with  which  the  door  to  the  secret  chamber  of  life  could 
be  unlocked.  Others  took  the  key  and  rushed  in.  The 
secret  chamber  of  life  was  filled  with  a  noisy  vulgar 
crowd.  All  the  books  that  dealt  with  life  at  all  dealt 
with  it  through  the  lips  of  the  crowd  that  had  newly 
come  into  the  sacred  place.  The  writer  had  hold  of 
the  key.  It  was  his  time  to  be  heard.  "Sex,"  he  cried. 
"It  is  by  understanding  sex  I  will  untangle  the  mys 
tery." 

It  was  all  very  well  and  sometimes  interesting  but 
one  grew  tired  of  the  subject. 

She  lay  abed  in  her  room  at  her  brother's  house  on 
a  Sunday  night  in  the  summer.  During  the  afternoon 
she  had  gone  for  a  walk  and  on  a  street  on  the  North 
west  Side  had  come  upon  a  religious  procession.  The 
Virgin  was  being  carried  through  the  streets.  The 
houses  were  decorated  and  women  leaned  out  at  the 
windows  of  houses.  Old  priests  dressed  in  white 
gowns  waddled  along.  Strong  young  men  carried  the 
platform  on  which  the  Virgin  rested.  The  procession 
stopped.  Someone  started  a  chant  in  a  loud  clear 
voice.  Other  voices  took  it  up.  Children  ran  about 
gathering  in  money.  All  the  time  there  was  a  loud 
hum  of  ordinary  conversation  going  on.  Women 
shouted  across  the  street  to  other  women.  Young 
girls  walked  on  the  sidewalks  and  laughed  softly  as 


204      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

the  young  men  in  white,  clustered  about  the  Virgin, 
turned  to  stare  at  them.  On  every  street  corner  mer 
chants  sold  candies,  nuts,  cool  drinks — 

In  her  bed  at  night  Rosalind  put  down  the  book  she 
had  been  reading.  "The  worship  of  the  Virgin  is  a 
form  of  sex  expression,"  she  read. 

"Well  what  of  it?  If  it  be  true  what  does  it  mat 
ter?" 

She  got  out  of  bed  and  took  off  her  nightgown.  She 
was  herself  a  virgin.  What  did  that  matter?  She 
turned  herself  slowly  about,  looking  at  her  strong 
young  woman's  body.  It  was  a  thing  in  which  sex 
lived.  It  was  a  thing  upon  which  sex  in  others  might 
express  itself.  What  did  it  matter? 

There  was  her  brother  sleeping  with  his  wife  in 
another  room  near  at  hand.  In  Willow  Springs,  Iowa, 
her  father  was  at  just  this  moment  pumping  a  pail  of 
water  at  the  well  by  the  kitchen  door.  In  a  moment 
he  would  carry  it  into  the  kitchen  to  set  it  on  the  box 
by  the  kitchen  sink. 

Rosalind's  cheeks  were  flushed.  She  made  an  odd 
and  lovely  figure  standing  nude  before  the  glass  in  her 
room  there  in  Chicago.  She  was  so  much  alive  and  yet 
not  alive.  Her  eyes  shone  with  excitement.  She  con 
tinued  to  turn  slowly  round  and  round  twisting  her 
head  to  look  at  her  naked  back.  "Perhaps  I  am  learn 
ing  to  think,"  she  decided.  There  was  some  sort  of 
essential  mistake  in  people's  conception  of  life.  There 


OUT    OF    NOWHERE    INTO    NOTHING     205 

was  something  she  knew  and  it  was  of  as  much  im 
portance  as  the  things  the  wise  men  knew  and  put  into 
books.  She  also  had  found  out  something  about  life. 
Her  body  was  still  the  body  of  what  was  called  a 
virgin.  What  of  it?  "If  the  sex  impulse  within  it 
had  been  gratified  in  what  way  would  my  problem  be 
solved?  I  am  lonely  now.  It  is  evident  that  after 
that  had  happened  I  would  still  be  lonely." 


206      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 


III 


Rosalind's  life  in  Chicago  had  been  like  a  stream 
that  apparently  turns  back  toward  its  source.  It  ran 
forward,  then  stopped,  turned,  twisted.  At  just  the 
time  when  her  awakening  became  a  half  realized 
thing  she  went  to  work  at  a  new  place,  a  piano  fac 
tory  on  the  Northwest  Side  facing  a  branch  of  the 
Chicago  River.  She  became  secretary  to  a  man  who 
was  treasurer  of  the  company.  He  was  a  slender, 
rather  small  man  of  thirty-eight  with  thin  white  rest 
less  hands  and  with  gray  eyes  that  were  clouded  and 
troubled.  For  the  first  time  she  became  really  inter 
ested  in  the  work  that  ate  up  her  days.  Her  employer 
was  charged  with  the  responsibility  of  passing  upon  the 
credit  of  the  firm's  customers  and  was  unfitted  for  the 
task.  He  was  not  shrewd  and  within  a  short  time  had 
made  two  costly  mistakes  by  which  the  company  had 
lost  money.  "I  have  too  much  to  do.  My  time  is  too 
much  taken  up  with  details.  I  need  help  here,"  he  had 
explained,  evidently  irritated,  and  Rosalind  had  been 
engaged  to  relieve  him  of  details. 

Her  new  employer,  named  Walter  Sayers,  was  the 
only  son  of  a  man  who  in  his  time  had  been  well  known 
in  Chicago's  social  and  club  life.  Everyone  had 
thought  him  wealthy  and  he  had  tried  to  live  up  to 


OUT    OF    NOWHERE    INTO    NOTHING     207 

people's  estimate  of  his  fortune.  His  son  Walter  had 
wanted  to  be  a  singer  and  had  expected  to  inherit  a 
comfortable  fortune.  At  thirty  he  had  married  and 
three  years  later  when  his  father  died  he  was  already 
the  father  of  two  children. 

And  then  suddenly  he  had  found  himself  quite  pen 
niless.  He  could  sing  but  his  voice  was  not  large. 
It  wasn't  an  instrument  with  which  one  could  make 
money  in  any  dignified  way.  Fortunately  his  wife  had 
some  money  of  her  own.  It  was  her  money,  invested 
in  the  piano  manufacturing  business,  that  had  secured 
him  the  position  as  treasurer  of  the  company.  With 
his  wife  he  withdrew  from  social  life  and  they  went 
to  live  in  a  comfortable  house  in  a  suburb. 

Walter  Sayers  gave  up  music,  apparently  surren 
dered  even  his  interest  in  it.  Many  men  and  women 
from  his  suburb  went  to  hear  the  orchestra  on  Friday 
afternoons  but  he  did  not  go.  "What's  the  use  of  tor 
turing  myself  and  thinking  of  a  life  I  cannot  lead?" 
he  said  to  himself.  To  his  wife  he  pretended  a  grow 
ing  interest  in  his  work  at  the  factory.  "It's  really 
fascinating.  It's  a  game,  like  moving  men  back  and 
forth  on  a  chess  board.  I  shall  grow  to  love  it,"  he 
said* 

He  had  tried  to  build  up  interest  in  his  work  but 
had  not  been  successful.  Certain  things  would  not  get 
into  his  consciousness.  Although  he  tried  hard  he 
could  not  make  the  fact  that  profit  or  loss  to  the  com- 


208       THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

pany  depended  upon  his  judgment  seem  important  to 
himself.  It  was  a  matter  of  money  lost  or  gained  and 
money  meant  nothing  to  him.  "It's  father's  fault,11 
he  thought.  " While  he  lived  money  never  meant  any 
thing  to  me.  I  was  brought  up  wrong.  I  am  ill  pre 
pared  for  the  battle  of  life."  He  became  too  timid 
and  lost  business  that  should  have  come  to  the  com 
pany  quite  naturally.  Then  he  became  too  bold  in  the 
extension  of  credit  and  other  losses  followed. 

His  wife  was  quite  happy  and  satisfied  with  her  life. 
There  were  four  or  five  acres  of  land  about  the  sub 
urban  house  and  she  became  absorbed  in  the  work  of 
raising  flowers  and  vegetables.  For  the  sake  of  the  chil 
dren  she  kept  a  cow.  With  a  young  negro  gardener 
she  puttered  about  all  day,  digging  in  the  earth, 
spreading  manure  about  the  roots  of  bushes  and 
shrubs,  planting  and  transplanting.  In  the  evening 
when  he  had  come  home  from  his  office  in  his  car  she 
took  him  by  the  arm  and  led  him  eagerly  about.  The 
two  children  trotted  at  their  heels.  She  talked  glow 
ingly.  They  stood  at  a  low  spot  at  the  foot  of  the 
garden  and  she  spoke  of  the  necessity  of  putting  in 
tile.  The  prospect  seemed  to  excite  her.  "It  will  be 
the  best  land  on  the  place  when  it's  drained,"  she 
said.  She  stooped  and  with  a  trowel  turned  over  the 
soft  black  soil.  An  odor  arose.  "See !  Just  see  how 
rich  and  black  it  is!"  she  exclaimed  eagerly.  "It's  a 
little  sour  now  because  water  has  stood  on  it."  She 


OUT    OF    NOWHERE    INTO    NOTHING     209 

seemed  to  be  apologizing  as  for  a  wayward  child. 
"When  it's  drained  I  shall  use  lime  to  sweeten  it," 
she  added.  She  was  like  a  mother  leaning  over  the 
cradle  of  a  sleeping  babe.  Her  enthusiasm  irritated 
him. 

When  Rosalind  came  to  take  the  position  in  his 
office  the  slow  fires  of  hatred  that  had  been  burning 
beneath  the  surface  of  Walter  Sayers'  life  had  already 
eaten  away  much  of  his  vigor  and  energy.  His  body 
sagged  in  the  office  chair  and  there  were  heavy  sag 
ging  lines  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth.  Outwardly  he 
remained  always  kindly  and  cheerful  but  back  of  the 
clouded,  troubled  eyes  the  fires  of  hatred  burned 
slowly,  persistently.  It  was  as  though  he  was  trying 
to  awaken  from  a  troubled  dream  that  gripped  him, 
a  dream  that  frightened  a  little,  that  was  unending. 
He  had  contracted  little  physical  habits.  A  sharp 
paper  cutter  lay  on  his  desk.  As  he  read  a  letter  from 
one  of  the  firm's  customers  he  took  it  up  and  jabbed 
little  holes  in  the  leather  cover  of  his  desk.  When  he 
had  several  letters  to  sign  he  took  up  his  pen  and 
jabbed  it  almost  viciously  into  the  inkwell.  Then 
before  signing  he  jabbed  it  in  again.  Sometimes  he 
did  the  thing  a  dozen  times  in  succession. 

Sometimes  the  things  that  went  on  beneath  the  sur 
face  of  Walter  Sayers  frightened  him.  In  order  to 
do  what  he  called  "putting  in  his  Saturday  afternoons 
and  Sundays"  he  had  taken  up  photography.  The 


210      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

camera  took  him  away  from  his  own  house  and  the 
sight  of  the  garden  where  his  wife  and  the  negro  were 
busy  digging,  and  into  the  fields  and  into  stretches  of 
woodland  at  the  edge  of  the  suburban  village.  Also 
it  took  him  away  from  his  wife's  talk,  from  her 
eternal  planning  for  the  garden's  future.  Here  by 
the  house  tulip  bulbs  were  to  be  put  in  in  the  fall. 
Later  there  would  be  a  hedge  of  lilac  bushes  shutting 
off  the  house  from  the  road.  The  men  who  lived  in 
the  other  houses  along  the  suburban  street  spent  their 
Saturday  afternoons  and  Sunday  mornings  tinkering 
with  motor  cars.  On  Sunday  afternoons  they  took 
their  families  driving,  sitting  up  very  straight  and 
silent  at  the  driving  wheel.  They  consumed  the  after 
noon  in  a  swift  dash  over  country  roads.  The  car  ate 
up  the  hours.  Monday  morning  and  the  work  in  the 
city  was  there,  at  the  end  of  the  road.  They  ran 
madly  toward  it. 

For  a  time  the  use  of  the  camera  made  Walter 
Sayers  almost  happy.  The  study  of  light,  playing  on 
the  trunk  of  a  tree  or  over  the  grass  in  a  field  appealed 
to  some  instinct  within.  It  was  an  uncertain  delicate 
business.  He  fixed  himself  a  dark  room  upstairs  in 
the  house  and  spent  his  evenings  there.  One  dipped 
the  films  into  the  developing  liquid,  held  them  to  the 
light  and  then  dipped  them  again.  The  little  nerves 
that  controlled  the  eyes  were  aroused.  One  felt  one- 
serf  being  enriched,  a  little — 


OUT    OP    NOWHERE     INTO     NOTHING     211 

One  Sunday  afternoon  he  went  to  walk  in  a  strip  of 
woodland  and  came  out  upon  the  slope  of  a  low  hill. 
He  had  read  somewhere  that  the  low  hill  country 
southwest  of  Chicago,  in  which  his  suburb  lay,  had 
once  been  the  shore  of  Lake  Michigan.  The  low  hills 
sprang  out  of  the  flat  land  and  were  covered  with 
forests.  Beyond  them  the  flat  lands  began  again. 
The  prairies  went  on  indefinitely,  into  infinity. 
People's  lives  went  on  so.  Life  was  too  long.  It  was 
to  be  spent  in  the  endless  doing  over  and  over  of  an 
unsatisfactory  task.  He  sat  on  the  slope  and  looked 
out  across  the  land. 

He  thought  of  his  wife.  She  was  back  there,  in  the 
suburb  in  the  hills,  in  her  garden  making  things  grow. 
It  was  a  noble  sort  of  thing  to  be  doing.  One  shouldn't 
be  irritated. 

Well  he  had  married  her  expecting  to  have  money 
of  his  own.  Then  he  would  have  worked  at  something 
else.  Money  would  not  have  been  involved  in  the 
matter  and  success  would  not  have  been  a  thing  one 
must  seek.  He  had  expected  his  own  life  would  be 
motivated.  No  matter  how  much  or  how  hard  he 
worked  he  would  not  have  been  a  great  singer.  What 
did  that  matter?  There  was  a  way  to  live — a  way 
of  life  in  which  such  things  did  not  matter.  The  deli 
cate  shades  of  things  might  be  sought  after.  Before 
his  eyes,  there  on  the  grass  covered  flat  lands,  the 
afternoon  light  was  playing.  It  was  like  a  breath,  a 


212      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

vapor  of  color  blown  suddenly  from  between  red  lips 
out  over  the  grey  dead  burned  grass.  Song  might  be 
like  that.  The  beauty  might  come  out  of  himself,  out 
of  his  own  body. 

Again  he  thought  of  his  wife  and  the  sleeping  light 
in  his  eyes  flared  up,  it  became  a  flame.  He  felt  him 
self  being  mean,  unfair.  It  didn't  matter.  Where 
did  the  truth  lie  ?  Was  his  wife,  digging  in  her  garden, 
having  always  a  succession  of  small  triumphs,  march 
ing  forward  with  the  seasons — well,  was  she  becoming 
a  little  old,  lean  and  sharp,  a  little  vulgarized? 

It  seemed  so  to  him.  There  was  something  smug 
in  the  way  in  which  she  managed  to  fling  green  growing 
flowering  things  over  the  black  land.  It  was  obvious 
the  thing  could  be  done  and  that  there  was  satisfaction 
in  doing  it.  It  was  a  little  like  running  a  business 
and  making  money  by  it.  There  was  a  deep  seated 
vulgarity  involved  in  the  whole  matter.  His  wife 
put  her  hands  into  the  black  ground.  They  felt  about, 
caressed  the  roots  of  the  growing  things.  She  laid 
hold  of  the  slender  trunk  of  a  young  tree  in  a  certain 
way — as  though  she  possessed  it. 

One  could  not  deny  that  the  destruction  of  beauti 
ful  things  was  involved.  Weeds  grew  in  the  garden, 
delicate  shapely  things.  She  plucked  them  out  with 
out  thought.  He  had  seen  her  do  it. 

As  for  himself,  he  also  had  been  pulled  out  of 
something.  Had  he  not  surrendered  to  the  fact  of  a 


OUT    OF    NOWHERE    INTO    NOTHING     213 

wife  and  growing  children?  Did  he  not  spend  his 
days  doing  work  he  detested?  The  anger  within  him 
burned  bright.  The  fire  came  into  his  conscious  self. 
Why  should  a  weed  that  is  to  be  destroyed  pretend  to 
a  vegetable  existence?  As  for  puttering  about  with  a 
camera — was  it  not  a  form  of  cheating?  He  did  not 
want  to  be  a  photographer.  He  had  once  wanted  to 
be  a  singer. 

He  arose  and  walked  along  the  hillside,  still  watch 
ing  the  shadows  play  over  the  plains  below.  At  night 
— in  bed  with  his  wife — well,  was  she  not  sometimes 
with  him  as  she  was  in  the  garden?  Something  was 
plucked  out  of  him  and  another  thing  grew  in  its 
place — something  she  wanted  to  have  grow.  Their 
love  making  was  like  his  puttering  with  a  camera 
— to  make  the  the  weekends  pass.  She  came  at  him  a 
little  too  determinedly — sure.  She  was  plucking  deli 
cate  weeds  in  order  that  things  she  had  determined 
upon — "vegetables,"  he  exclaimed  in  disgust — in  order 
that  vegetables  might  grow.  Love  was  a  fragrance, 
the  shading  of  a  tone  over  the  lips,  out  of  the  throat. 
It  was  like  the  afternoon  light  on  the  burned  grass. 
Keeping  a  garden  and  making  flowers  grow  had  noth 
ing  to  do  with  it. 

Walter  Savers'  fingers  twitched.  The  camera  hung 
by  a  strap  over  his  shoulder.  He  took  hold  of  the 
strap  and  walked  to  a  tree.  He  swung  the  box  above 
his  head  and  brought  it  down  with  a  thump  against 


214      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

the  tree  trunk.  The  sharp  breaking  sound — the  deli 
cate  parts  of  the  machine  being  broken — was  sweet 
to  his  ears.  It  was  as  though  a  song  had  come  sud 
denly  from  between  his  lips.  Again  he  swung  the  box 
and  again  brought  it  down  against  the  tree  trunk. 


OUT    OF     NOWHERE     INTO     NOTHING     215 


IV 

Rosalind  at  work  in  Walter  Savers'  office  was  from 
the  beginning  something  different,  apart  from  the 
young  woman  from  Iowa  who  had  been  drifting  from 
office  to  office,  moving  from  rooming  house  to  room 
ing  house  on  Chicago's  North  Side,  striving  feebly  to 
find  out  something  about  life  by  reading  books,  going 
to  the  theatre  and  walking  alone  in  the  streets.  In 
the  new  place  her  life  at  once  began  to  have  point  and 
purpose,  but  at  the  same  time  the  perplexity  that  was 
later  to  send  her  running  to  Willow  Springs  and  to  the 
presence  of  her  mother  began  to  grow  in  her. 

Walter  Sayers'  office  was  a  rather  large  room  on  the 
third  floor  of  the  factory  whose  walls  went  straight 
up  from  the  river's  edge.  In  the  morning  Rosalind  ar 
rived  at  eight  and  went  into  the  office  and  closed  the 
door.  In  a  large  room  across  a  narrow  hallway  and 
shut  off  from  her  retreat  by  two  thick,  clouded-glass 
partitions  was  the  company's  general  office.  It  con 
tained  the  desks  of  salesmen,  several  clerks,  a  book 
keeper  and  two  stenographers.  Rosalind  avoided  be 
coming  acquainted  with  these  people.  She  was  in  a 
mood  to  be  alone,  to  spend  as  many  hours  as  possible 
alone  with  her  own  thoughts. 

She  got  to  the  office  at  eight  and  her  employer  did 


2l6      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 


not  arrive  until  nine-thirty  or  ten.  For  an  hour  or  two 
in  the  morning  and  in  the  late  afternoon  she  had  the 
place  to  herself.  Immediately  she  shut  the  door  into 
the  hallway  and  was  alone  she  felt  at  home.  Even  in 
her  father's  house  it  had  never  been  so.  She  took 
off  her  wraps  and  walked  about  the  room  touching 
things,  putting  things  to  rights.  During  the  night  a 
negro  woman  had  scrubbed  the  floor  and  wiped  the 
dust  off  her  employer's  desk  but  she  got  a  cloth  and 
wiped  the  desk  again.  Then  she  opened  the  letters 
that  had  come  in  and  after  reading  arranged  them  in 
little  piles.  She  wanted  to  spend  a  part  of  her  wages 
for  flowers  and  imagined  clusters  of  flowers  arranged 
in  small  hanging  baskets  along  the  grey  walls.  "I'll 
do  that  later,  perhaps,"  she  thought. 

The  walls  of  the  room  enclosed  her.  "What  makes 
me  so  happy  here?"  she  asked  herself.  As  for  her 
employer — she  felt  she  scarcely  knew  him.  He  was 
a  shy  man,  rather  small — 

She  went  to  a  window  and  stood  looking  out.  Near 
the  factory  a  bridge  crossed  the  river  and  over  it  went 
a  stream  of  heavily  loaded  wagons  and  motor  trucks. 
The  sky  was  grey  with  smoke.  In  the  afternoon,  after 
her  employer  had  gone  for  the  day,  she  would  stand 
again  by  the  window.  As  she  stood  thus  she  faced 
westward  and  in  the  afternoon  saw  the  sun  fall  down 
the  sky.  It  was  glorious  to  be  there  alone  during  the 
late  hours  of  the  afternoon.  What  a  tremendous 


OUT    OF    NOWHERE    INTO    NOTHING     2iy 

thing  this  city  in  which  she  had  come  to  live!  For 
some  reason  after  she  went  to  work  for  Walter 
Sayers  the  city  seemed,  like  the  room  in  which  she 
worked,  to  have  accepted  her,  taken  her  into  itself.  In 
the  late  afternoon  the  rays  of  the  departing  sun  fell 
across  great  banks  of  clouds.  The  whole  city  seemed 
to  reach  upwards.  It  left  the  ground  and  ascended 
into  the  air.  There  was  an  illusion  produced.  Stark 
grim  factory  chimneys,  that  all  day  were  stiff  cold 
formal  things  sticking  up  into  the  air  and  belching 
forth  black  smoke,  were  now  slender  upreaching  pencils 
of  light  and  wavering  color.  The  tall  chimneys  de 
tached  themselves  from  the  buildings  and  sprang  into 
the  air.  The  factory  in  which  Rosalind  stood  had 
such  a  chimney.  It  also  was  leaping  upward.  She 
felt  herself  being  lifted,  an  odd  floating  sensation  was 
achieved.  With  what  a  stately  tread  the  day  went 
away,  over  the  city!  The  city,  like  the  factory  chim 
neys  yearned  after  it,  hungered  for  it. 

In  the  morning  gulls  came  in  from  Lake  Michigan 
to  feed  on  the  sewage  floating  in  the  river  below. 
The  river  was  the  color  of  chrysoprase.  The  gulls 
floated  above  it  as  sometimes  in  the  evening  the  whole 
city  seemed  to  float  before  her  eyes.  They  were 
graceful,  living,  free  things.  They  were  triumphant. 
The  getting  of  food,  even  the  eating  of  sewage 
was  done  thus  gracefully,  beautifully.  The  gulls 
turned  and  twisted  in  the  air.  They  wheeled  and 


2l8       THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

floated  and  then  fell  downward  to  the  river  in  a  long 
curve,  just  touching,  caressing  the  surface  of  the  water 
and  then  rising  again. 

Rosalind  raised  herself  on  her  toes.  At  her  back 
beyond  the  two  glass  partitions  were  other  men  and 
women,  but  there,  in  that  room,  she  was  alone.  She 
belonged  there.  What  an  odd  feeling  she  had.  She 
also  belonged  to  her  employer,  Walter  Sayers.  She 
scarcely  knew  the  man  and  yet  she  belonged  to  him. 
She  threw  her  arms  above  her  head,  trying  awkwardly 
to  imitate  some  movement  of  the  birds. 

Her  awkwardness  shamed  her  a  little  and  she  turned 
and  walked  about  the  room.  "I'm  twenty-five  years 
old  and  it's  a  little  late  to  begin  trying  to  be  a  bird, 
to  be  graceful,"  she  thought.  She  resented  the  slow 
stupid  heavy  movements  of  her  father  and  mother, 
the  movements  she  had  imitated  as  a  child.  uWhy 
was  I  not  taught  to  be  graceful  and  beautiful  in  mind 
and  body,  why  in  the  place  I  came  from  did  no  one 
think  it  worth  while  to  try  to  be  graceful  and  beauti 
ful?"  she  whispered  to  herself. 

How  conscious  of  her  own  body  Rosalind  was  be 
coming!  She  walked  across  the  room,  trying  to  go 
lightly  and  gracefully.  In  the  office  beyond  the  glass 
partitions  someone  spoke  suddenly  and  she  was 
startled.  She  laughed  foolishly.  For  a  long  time 
after  she  went  to  work  in  the  office  of  Walter  Sayers 
she  thought  the  desire  in  herself  to  be  physically  more 


OUT    OF     NOWHERE     INTO     NOTHING     219 

graceful  and  beautiful  and  to  rise  also  out  of  the 
mental  stupidity  and  sloth  of  her  young  womanhood 
was  due  to  the  fact  that  the  factory  windows  faced 
the  river  and  the  western  sky,  and  that  in  the  morn 
ing  she  saw  the  gulls  feeding  and  in  the  afternoon 
the  sun  going  down  through  the  smoke  clouds  in  a 
riot  of  colors. 


220      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 


On  the  August  evening  as  Rosalind  sat  on  the  porch 
before  her  father's  house  in  Willow  Springs,  Walter 
Sayers  came  home  from  the  factory  by  the  river 
and  to  his  wife's  suburban  garden.  When  the  family 
had  dined  he  came  out  to  walk  in  the  paths  with  the 
two  children,  boys,  but  they  soon  tired  of  his  silence 
and  went  to  join  their  mother.  The  young  negro 
came  along  a  path  by  the  kitchen  door  and  joined  the 
party.  Walter  went  to  sit  on  a  garden  seat  that  was 
concealed  behind  bushes.  He  lighted  a  cigarette  but 
did  not  smoke.  The  smoke  curled  quietly  up  through 
his  fingers  as  it  burned  itself  out. 

Closing  his  eyes  Walter  sat  perfectly  still  and  tried 
not  to  think.  The  soft  evening  shadows  began  pres 
ently  to  close  down  and  around  him.  For  a  long  time 
he  sat  thus  motionless,  like  a  carved  figure  placed  on 
the  garden  bench.  He  rested.  He  lived  and  did  not 
live.  The  intense  body,  usually  so  active  and  alert, 
had  become  a  passive  thing.  It  was  thrown  aside, 
on  to  the  bench,  under  the  bush,  to  sit  there,  waiting 
to  be  reinhabited. 

This  hanging  suspended  between  consciousness  and 
unconsciousness  was  a  thing  that  did  not  happen  often. 
There  was  something  to  be  settled  between  himself 


OUT    OF    NOWHERE    INTO    NOTHING     221 

and  a  woman  and  the  woman  had  gone  away.  His 
whole  plan  of  life  had  been  disturbed.  Now  he  wanted 
to  rest.  The  details  of  his  life  were  forgotten.  As  for 
the  woman  he  did  not  think  of  her,  did  not  want  to 
think  of  her.  It  was  ridiculous  that  he  needed  her  so 
much.  He  wondered  if  he  had  ever  felt  that  way  about 
Coia,  his  wife.  Perhaps  he  had,  Now  she  was  near 
him,  but  a  few  yards  away.  It  was  almost  dark  but  she 
with  the  negro  remained  at  work,  digging  in  the 
ground — somewhere  near — caressing  the  soil,  making 
things  grow. 

When  his  mind  was  undisturbed  by  thoughts  and  lay 
like  a  lake  in  the  hills  on  a  quiet  summer  evening  little 
thoughts  did  come.  "I  want  you  as  a  lover — far  away. 
Keep  yourself  far  away."  The  words  trailed  through 
his  mind  as  the  smoke  from  the  cigarette  trailed  slowly 
upwards  through  his  fingers.  Did  the  words  refer  to 
Rosalind  Wescott?  She  had  been  gone  from  him  three 
days.  Did  he  hope  she  would  never  come  back  or  did 
the  words  refer  to  his  wife? 

His  wife's  voice  spoke  sharply.  One  of  the  chil 
dren  in  playing  about,  had  stepped  on  a  plant.  "If 
you  are  not  careful  I  shall  have  to  make  you  stay  out 
of  the  garden  altogether."  She  raised  her  voice  and 
called,  "Marian  1"  A  maid  came  from  the  house  and 
took  the  children  away.  They  went  along  the  path 
toward  the  house  protesting.  Then  they  ran  back  to 
kiss  their  mother.  There  was  a  struggle  and  then  ac- 


222      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

ceptance.  The  kiss  was  acceptance  of  their  fate — to 
obey.  "O,  Walter,"  the  mother's  voice  called,  but 
the  man  on  the  bench  did  not  answer.  Tree  toads  be 
gan  to  cry.  "The  kiss  is  acceptance.  Any  physical 
contact  with  another  is  acceptance,"  he  reflected. 

The  little  voices  within  Walter  Sayers  were  talk 
ing  away  at  a  great  rate.  Suddenly  he  wanted  to  sing. 
He  had  been  told  that  his  voice  was  small,  not  of 
much  account,  that  he  would  never  be  a  singer.  It 
was  quite  true  no  doubt  but  here,  in  the  garden  on  the 
quiet  summer  night,  was  a  place  and  a  time  for  a  small 
voice.  It  would  be  like  the  voice  within  himself  that 
whispered  sometimes  when  he  was  quiet,  relaxed.  One 
evening  when  he  had  been  with  the  woman,  Rosalind, 
when  he  had  taken  her  into  the  country  in  his  car,  he 
had  suddenly  felt  as  he  did  now.  They  sat  together  in 
the  car  that  he  had  run  into  a  field.  For  a  long  time 
they  had  remained  silent.  Some  cattle  came  and 
stood  nearby,  their  figures  soft  in  the  night.  Suddenly 
he  had  felt  like  a  new  man  in  a  new  world  and  had 
begun  to  sing.  He  sang  one  song  over  and  over,  then 
sat  in  silence  for  a  time  and  after  that  drove  out  of 
the  field  and  through  a  gate  into  the  road.  He  took 
the  woman  back  to  her  place  in  the  city. 

In  the  quiet  of  the  garden  on  the  summer  evening 
he  opened  his  lips  to  sing  the  same  song.  He  would 
sing  with  the  tree  toad  hidden  away  in  the  fork  of 
a  tree  somewhere.  He  would  lift  his  voice  up  from 


OUT    OF    NOWHERE    INTO    NOTHING     223 

the  earth,  up  into  the  branches,  of  trees,  away  from 
the  ground  in  which  people  were  digging,  his  wife  and 
the  young  negro. 

The  song  did  not  come.  His  wife  began  speaking 
and  the  sound  of  her  voice  took  away  the  desire  to 
sing.  Why  had  she  not,  like  the  other  woman,  re 
mained  silent? 

He  began  playing  a  game.  Sometimes,  when  he  was 
alone  the  thing  happened  to  him  that  had  now  hap 
pened.  His  body  became  like  a  tree  or  a  plant.  Life 
ran  through  it  unobstructed.  He  had  dreamed  of  be 
ing  a  singer  but  at  such  a  moment  he  wanted  also  to 
be  a  dancer.  That  would  have  been  sweetest  of  all 
things — to  sway  like  the  tops  of  young  trees  when  a 
wind  blew,  to  give  himself  as  grey  weeds  in  a  sun 
burned  field  gave  themself  to  the  influence  of  passing 
shadows,  changing  color  constantly,  becoming  every 
moment  something  new,  to  live  in  life  and  in  death  too, 
always  to  live,  to  be  unafraid  of  life,  to  let  it  flow 
through  his  body,  to  let  the  blood  flow  through  his 
body,  not  to  struggle,  to  offer  no  resistance,  to  dance. 

Walter  Savers'  children  had  gone  into  the  house 
with  the  nurse  girl  Marian.  It  had  become  too  dark 
for  his  wife  to  dig  in  the  garden.  It  was  August 
and  the  fruitful  time  of  the  year  for  farms  and 
gardens  had  come,  but  his  wife  had  forgotten  fruitful- 
ness.  She  was  making  plans  for  another  year.  She 


224      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

came  along  the  garden  path  followed  by  the  negro. 
"We  will  set  out  strawberry  plants  there,"  she  was 
saying.  The  soft  voice  of  the  young  negro  mur 
mured  his  assent.  It  was  evident  the  young  man 
lived  in  her  conception  of  the  garden.  His  mind  sought 
out  her  desire  and  gave  itself. 

The  children  Walter  Sayers  had  brought  into  life 
through  the  body  of  his  wife  Cora  had  gone  into  the 
house  and  to  bed.  They  bound  him  to  life,  to  his  wife, 
to  the  garden  where  he  sat,  to  the  office  by  the  river 
side  in  the  city. 

They  were  not  his  children.  Suddenly  he  knew  that 
quite  clearly.  His  own  children  were  quite  different 
things.  "Men  have  children  just  as  women  do.  The 
children  come  out  of  their  bodies.  They  play  about," 
he  thought.  It  seemed  to  him  that  children,  born  of 
his  fancy,  were  at  that  very  moment  playing  about 
the  bench  where  he  sat.  Living  things  that  dwelt 
within  him  and  that  had  at  the  same  time  the  power 
to  depart  out  of  him  were  now  running  along  paths, 
swinging  from  the  branches  of  trees,  dancing  in  the 
soft  light. 

His  mind  sought  out  the  figure  of  Rosalind  Wescott 
She  had  gone  away,  to  her  own  people  in  Iowa.  There 
had  been  a  note  at  the  office  saying  she  might  be  gone 
for  several  days.  Between  himself  and  Rosalind  the 
conventional  relationship  of  employer  and  employee 
had  long  since  been  swept  quite  away.  It  needed 


OUT    OF    NOWHERE    INTO    NOTHING     225 

something  in  a  man  he  did  not  possess  to  maintain 
that  relationship  with  either  men  or  women. 

At  the  moment  he  wanted  to  forget  Rosalind.  In 
her  there  was  a  struggle  going  on.  The  two  people 
had  wanted  to  be  lovers  and  he  had  fought  against 
that.  They  had  talked  about  it.  "Well,"  he  said,  "it 
will  not  work  out.  We  will  bring  unnecessary  un- 
happiness  upon  ourselves." 

He  had  been  honest  enough  in  fighting  off  the  in 
tensification  of  their  relationship.  "If  she  were  here 
now,  in  this  garden  with  me,  it  wouldn't  matter.  We 
could  be  lovers  and  then  forget  about  being  lovers," 
he  told  himself. 

His  wife  came  along  the  path  and  stopped  nearby. 
She  continued  talking  in  a  low  voice,  making  plans  for 
another  year  of  gardening.  The  negro  stood  near 
her,  his  figure  making  a  dark  wavering  mass  against 
the  foliage  of  a  low  growing  bush.  His  wife  wore  a 
white  dress.  He  could  see  her  figure  quite  plainly. 
In  the  uncertain  light  it  looked  girlish  and  young. 
She  put  her  hand  up  and  took  hold  of  the  body  of 
a  young  tree.  The  hand  became  detached  from  her 
body.  The  pressure  of  her  leaning  body  made  the 
young  tree  sway  a  little.  The  white  hand  moved 
slowly  back  and  forth  in  space. 

Rosalind  Wescott  had  gone  home  to  tell  her  mother 
of  her  love.  In  her  note  she  had  said  nothing  of  that 
but  Walter  Sayers  knew  that  was  the  object  of  her 


226      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

visit  to  the  Iowa  town.  It  was  on  odd  sort  of  thing 
to  try  to  do — to  tell  people  of  love,  to  try  to  explain 
it  to  others. 

The  night  was  a  thing  apart  from  Walter  Sayers, 
the  male  being  sitting  in  silence  in  the  garden.  Only 
the  children  of  his  fancy  understood  it.  The  night 
was  a  living  thing.  It  advanced  upon  him,  enfolded 
him.  "Night  is  the  sweet  little  brother  of  Death,"  he 
thought. 

His  wife  stood  very  near.  Her  voice  was  soft  and 
low  and  the  voice  of  the  negro  when  he  answered  her 
comments  on  the  future  of  the  garden  was  soft  and 
low.  There  was  music  in  the  negro's  voice,  perhaps  a 
dance  in  it.  Walter  remembered  about  him. 

The  young  negro  had  been  in  trouble  before  he 
came  to  the  Sayers.  He  had  been  an  ambitious  young 
black  and  had  listened  to  the  voices  of  people,  to  the 
voices  that  filled  the  air  of  America,  rang  through 
the  houses  of  America.  He  had  wanted  to  get  on  in 
life  and  had  tried  to  educate  himself.  The  black  had 
wanted  to  be  a  lawyer. 

How  far  away  he  had  got  from  his  own  people, 
from  the  blacks  of  the  African  forests !  He  had  wanted 
to  be  a  lawyer  in  a  city  in  America.  What  a  notion  I 

Well  he  had  got  into  trouble.  He  had  managed 
to  get  through  college  and  had  opened  a  law  office. 
Then  one  evening  he  went  out  to  walk  and  chance  led 
him  into  a  street  where  a  woman,  a  white  woman,  had 


i 


I 


OUT    OF     NOWHERE    INTO    NOTHING     227 

been  murdered  an  hour  before.  The  body  of  the 
woman  was  found  and  then  he  was  found  walking  in 
the  street.  Mrs.  Sayers'  brother,  a  lawyer,  had 
saved  him  from  being  punished  as  a  murderer  and 
after  the  trial,  and  the  young  negro's  acquittal,  had 
induced  his  sister  to  take  him  as  gardener.  His  chances 
as  a  professional  man  in  the  city  were  no  good.  "He 
has  had  a  terrible  experience  and  has  just  escaped  by 
a  fluke"  the  brother  had  said.  Cora  Sayers  had  taken 
the  young  man.  She  had  bound  him  to  herself,  to  her 
garden. 

It  was  evident  the  two  people  were  bound  together. 
One  cannot  bind  another  without  being  bound. 
His  wife  had  no  more  to  say  to  the  negro  who  went 
away  along  the  path  that  led  to  the  kitchen  door.  He 
had  a  room  in  a  little  house  at  the  foot  of  the  garden. 
In  the  room  he  had  books  and  a  piano.  Sometimes 
in  the  evening  he  sang.  He  was  going  now  to  his 
place.  By  educating  himself  he  had  cut  himself  off 
from  his  own  people. 

Cora  Sayers  went  into  the  house  and  Walter  sat 
alone.  After  a  time  the  young  negro  came  silently 
down  the  path.  He  stopped  by  the  tree  where  a 
moment  before  the  white  woman  had  stood  talking 
to  him.  He  put  his  hand  on  the  trunk  of  the  young 
tree  where  her  hand  had  been  and  then  went  softly 
away.  His  feet  made  no  sound  on  the  garden  path. 

An  hour  passed.    In  his  little  house  at  the  foot  of 


228      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

the  garden  the  negro  began  to  sing  softly.  He  did 
that  sometimes  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  What  a 
life  he  had  led  too!  He  had  come  away  from  his 
black  people,  from  the  warm  brown  girls  with  the 
golden  colors  playing  through  the  blue  black  of  their 
skins  and  had  worked  his  way  through  a  Northern 
college,  had  accepted  the  patronage  of  impertinent 
people  who  wanted  to  uplift  the  black  race,  had 
listened  to  them,  had  bound  himself  to  them,  had 
tried  to  follow  the  way  of  life  they  had  suggested. 

Now  he  was  in  the  little  house  at  the  foot  of  the 
Savers'  garden.  Walter  remembered  little  things  his 
wife  had  told  him  about  the  man.  The  experience  in 
the  court  room  had  frightened  him  horribly  and  he  did 
not  want  to  go  off  the  Sayers'  place.  Education,  books 
had  done  something  to  him.  He  could  not  go  back 
to  his  own  people.  In  Chicago,  for  the  most  part,  the 
blacks  lived  crowded  into  a  few  streets  on  the  South 
Side.  "I  want  to  be  a  slave,"  he  had  said  to  Cora 
Sayers.  "You  may  pay  me  money  if  it  makes  you  feel 
better  but  I  shall  have  no  use  for  it.  I  want  to  be 
your  slave.  I  would  be  happy  if  I  knew  I  would  never 
have  to  go  off  your  place." 

The  black  sang  a  low  voiced  song.  It  ran  like  a 
little  wind  on  the  surface  of  a  pond.  It  had  no  words. 
He  had  remembered  the  song  from  his  father  who  had 
got  it  from  his  father.  In  the  South,  in  Alabama  and 
Mississippi  the  blacks  sang  it  when  they  rolled  cotton 


OUT    OF    NOWHERE    INTO    NOTHING     229 

bales  onto  the  steamers  in  the  rivers.  They  had  got  it 
from  other  rollers  of  cotton  bales  long  since  dead. 
Long  before  there  were  any  cotton  bales  to  roll  black 
men  in  boats  on  rivers  in  Africa  had  sung  it.  Young 
blacks  in  boats  floated  down  rivers  and  came  to  a 
town  they  intended  to  attack  at  dawn.  There  was 
bravado  in  singing  the  song  then.  It  was  addressed  to 
the  women  in  the  town  to  be  attacked  and  contained 
both  a  caress  and  a  threat.  "In  the  morning  your 
husbands  and  brothers  and  sweethearts  we  shall  kill. 
Then  we  shall  come  into  your  town  to  you.  We  shall 
hold  you  close.  We  shall  make  you  forget.  With 
our  hot  love  and  our  strength  we  shall  make  you  for 
get."  That  was  the  old  significance  of  the  song. 

Walter  Sayers  remembered  many  things.  On  other 
nights  when  the  negro  sang  and  when  he  lay  in  his 
room  upstairs  in  the  house,  his  wife  came  to  him. 
There  were  two  beds  in  their  room.  She  sat  up 
right  in  her  bed.  "Do  you  hear,  Walter?"  she  asked. 
She  came  to  sit  on  his  bed,  sometimes  she  crept  into 
his  arms.  In  the  African  villages  long  ago  when  the 
song  floated  up  from  the  river  men  arose  and  pre 
pared  for  battle.  The  song  was  a  defiance,  a  taunt. 
That  was  all  gone  now.  The  young  negro's  house  was 
at  the  foot  of  the  garden  and  Walter  with  his  wife 
lay  upstairs  in  the  larger  house  situated  on  high 
ground.  It  was  a  sad  song,  filled  with  race  sadness. 
There  was  something  in  the  ground  that  wanted  to 


230      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

grow,  buried  deep  in  the  ground.  Cora  Sayers  under 
stood  that.  It  touched  something  instinctive  in  her. 
Her  hand  went  out  and  touched,  caressed  her  hus 
band's  face,  his  body.  The  song  made  her  want  to 
hold  him  tight,  possess  him. 

The  night  was  advancing  and  it  grew  a  little  cold 
in  the  garden.     The  negro  stopped  singing.     Walter 
Sayers  arose  and  went  along  the  path  toward  the  house 
but  did  not  enter.    Instead  he  went  through  a  gate  into 
the  road  and  along  the  suburban  streets  until  he  got 
into  the  open  country.     There  was  no  moon  but  the 
stars  shone  brightly.     For  a  time  he  hurried  along 
looking  back  as  though  afraid  of  being  followed,  but 
when  he  got  out  into  a  broad  flat  meadow  he  went  more 
slowly.    For  an  hour  he  walked  and  then  stopped  and 
sat  on  a  tuft  of  dry  grass.    For  some  reason  he  knew 
he  could  not  return  to  his  house  in  the  suburb  that 
night.     In  the  morning  he  would  go  to  the  office  and 
wait  there  until  Rosalind  came.    Then?     He  did  not 
know  what  he  would  do  then.     "I  shall  have  to  make 
up  some  story.     In  the  morning  I  shall  have  to  tele 
phone  Cora  and  make  up  some  silly  story,"  he  thought. 
It  was  an  absurd  thing  that  he,  a  grown  man,  could 
not  spend  a  night  abroad,  in  the  fields  without  the 
necessity  of  explanations.     The  thought  irritated  him 
and  he  arose  and  walked  again.     Under  the  stars  in 
the  soft  night  and  on  the  wide  flat  plains  the  irritation 
soon  went  away  and  he  began  to  sing  softly,  but  the 


OUT    OF    NOWHERE    INTO    NOTHING     231 

song  he  sang  was  not  the  one  he  had  repeated  over  and 
over  on  that  other  night  when  he  sat  with  Rosalind  in 
the  car  and  the  cattle  came.  It  was  the  song  the 
negro  sang,  the  river  song  of  the  young  black  warriors 
that  slavery  had  softened  and  colored  with  sadness. 
On  the  lips  of  Walter  Sayers  the  song  had  lost  much 
of  its  sadness.  He  walked  almost  gaily  along  and  in 
the  song  that  flowed  from  his  lips  there  was  a  taunt,  a 
kind  of  challenge. 


232      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 


VI 


At  the  end  of  the  short  street  on  which  the  Wes- 
cotts  lived  in  Willow  Springs  there  was  a  cornfield. 
When  Rosalind  was  a  child  it  was  a  meadow  and  be 
yond  was  an  orchard. 

On  summer  afternoons  the  child  often  went  there  to 
sit  alone  on  the  banks  of  a  tiny  stream  that  wandered 
away  eastward  toward  Willow  Creek,  draining  the 
farmer's  fields  on  the  way.  The  creek  had  made  a 
slight  depression  in  the  level  contour  of  the  land  and 
she  sat  with  her  back  against  an  old  apple  tree  and 
with  her  bare  feet  almost  touching  the  water.  Her 
mother  did  not  permit  her  to  run  bare  footed  through 
the  streets  but  when  she  got  into  the  orchard  she  took 
her  shoes  off.  It  gave  her  a  delightful  naked  feeling. 

Overhead  and  through  the  branches  the  child  could 
see  the  great  sky.  Masses  of  white  clouds  broke  into 
fragments  and  then  the  fragments  came  together 
again.  The  sun  ran  in  behind  one  of  the  cloud  masses 
and  grey  shadows  slid  silently  over  the  face  of  distant 
fields.  The  world  of  her  child  life,  the  Wescott  house 
hold,  Melville  Stoner  sitting  in  his  house,  the  cries 
of  other  children  who  lived  in  her  street,  all  the  life 
she  knew  went  far  away.  To  be  there  in  that  silent 
place  was  like  lying  awake  in  bed  at  night  only  in 


OUT    OF    NOWHERE    INTO    NOTHING     233 

some  way  sweeter  and  better.  There  were  no  dull 
household  sounds  and  the  air  she  breathed  was  sweeter, 
cleaner.  The  child  played  a  little  game.  All  the  apple 
trees  in  the  orchard  were  old  and  gnarled  and  she  had 
given  all  the  trees  names.  There  was  one  fancy  that 
frightened  her  a  little  but  was  delicious  too.  She  fan 
cied  that  at  night  when  she  had  gone  to  bed  and  was 
asleep  and  when  all  the  town  of  Willow  Springs  had 
gone  to  sleep  the  trees  came  out  of  the  ground  and 
walked  about.  The  grasses  beneath  the  trees,  the 
bushes  that  grew  beside  the  fence — all  came  out  of  the 
ground  and  ran  madly  here  and  there.  They  danced 
wildly.  The  old  trees,  like  stately  old  men,  put  their 
heads  together  and  talked.  As  they  talked  their 
bodies  swayed  slightly — back  and  forth,  back  and 
forth.  The  bushes  and  flowering  weeds  ran  in  great 
circles  among  the  little  grasses.  The  grasses  hopped 
straight  up  and  down. 

Sometimes  when  she  sat  with  her  back  against  the 
tree  on  warm  bright  afternoons  the  child  Rosalind  had 
played  the  game  of  dancing-life  until  she  grew  afraid 
and  had  to  give  it  up.  Nearby  in  the  fields  men  were 
cultivating  corn.  The  breasts  of  the  horses  and  their 
wide  strong  shoulders  pushed  the  young  corn  aside  and 
made  a  low  rustling  sound.  Now  and  then  a  man's 
voice  was  raised  in  a  shout.  "Hi,  there  you  Joe! 
Get  in  there  Frank!"  The  widow  of  the  hens  owned 
a  little  woolly  dog  that  occasionally  broke  into  a  spasm 


234      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

of  barking,  apparently  without  cause,  senseless,  eager, 
barking.  Rosalind  shut  all  the  sounds  out.  She  closed 
her  eyes  and  struggled,  trying  to  get  into  the  place 
beyond  human  sounds.  After  a  time  her  desire  was 
accomplished.  There  was  a  low  sweet  sound  like 
the  murmuring  of  voices  far  away.  Now  the  thing 
was  happening.  With  a  kind  of  tearing  sound  the 
trees  came  up  to  stand  on  top  of  the  ground.  They 
moved  with  stately  tread  toward  each  other.  Now 
the  mad  bushes  and  the  flowering  weeds  came  run 
ning,  dancing  madly,  now  the  joyful  grasses  hopped. 
Rosalind  could  not  stay  long  in  her  world  of  fancy. 
It  was  too  mad,  too  joyful.  She  opened  her  eyes  and 
jumped  to  her  feet.  Everything  was  all  right.  The 
trees  stood  solidly  rooted  in  the  ground,  the  weeds 
and  bushes  had  gone  back  to  their  places  by  the  fence, 
the  grasses  lay  asleep  on  the  ground.  She  felt  that 
her  father  and  mother,  her  brother,  everyone  she 
knew  would  not  approve  of  her  being  there  among 
them.  The  world  of  dancing  life  was  a  lovely  but  a 
wicked  world.  She  knew.  Sometimes  she  was  a  little 
mad  herself  and  then  she  was  whipped  or  scolded. 
The  mad  world  of  her  fancy  had  to  be  put  away.  It 
frightened  her  a  little.  Once  after  the  thing  appeared 
she  cried,  went  down  to  the  fence  crying.  A  man  who 
was  cultivating  corn  came  along  and  stopped  his 
horses.  "What's  the  matter?"  he  asked  sharply.  She 
couldn't  tell  him  so  she  told  a  lie.  "A  bee  stung  me," 


OUT     OF     NOWHERE     INTO     NOTHING     235 

she  said.    The  man  laughed.    "It'll  get  well.    Better 
put  on  your  shoes,"  he  advised. 

The  time  of  the  marching  trees  and  the  dancing 
grasses  was  in  Rosalind's  childhood.  Later  when  she 
had  graduated  from  the  Willow  Springs  High  School 
and  had  the  three  years  of  waiting  about  the  Wescott 
house  before  she  went  to  the  city  she  had  other  ex 
periences  in  the  orchard.  Then  she  had  been  reading 
novels  and  had  talked  with  other  young  women.  She 
knew  many  things  that  after  all  she  did  not  know.  In 
the  attic  of  her  mother's  house  there  was  a  cradle  in 
which  she  and  her  brother  had  slept  when  they  were 
babies.  One  day  she  went  up  there  and  found  it. 
Bedding  for  the  cradle  was  packed  away  in  a  trunk 
and  she  took  it  out.  She  arranged  the  cradle  for  the 
reception  of  a  child.  Then  after  she  did  it  she  was 
ashamed.  Her  mother  might  come  up  the  attic  stairs 
and  see  it.  She  put  the  bedding  quickly  back  into  the 
trunk  and  went  down  stairs,  her  cheeks  burning  with 
shame. 

What  a  confusion !  One  day  she  went  to  the  house 
of  a  schoolgirl  friend  who  was  about  to  be  married. 
Several  other  girls  came  and  they  were  all  taken  into 
a  bedroom  where  the  bride's  trousseau  was  laid  out  on 
a  bed.  What  soft  lovely  things !  All  the  girls  went 
forward  and  stood  over  them,  Rosalind  among  them. 
Some  of  the  girls  were  shy,  others  bold.  There  was 
one,  a  thin  girl  who  had  no  breasts.  Her  body  was 


236      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

flat  like  a  door  and  she  had  a  thin  sharp  voice  and  a 
thin  sharp  face.  She  began  to  cry  out  strangely. 
"How  sweet,  how  sweet,  how  sweet,"  she  cried  over 
and  over.  The  voice  was  not  like  a  human  voice.  It 
was  like  something  being  hurt,  an  animal  in  the  forest, 
far  away  somewhere  by  itself,  being  hurt.  Then  the 
girl  dropped  to  her  knees  beside  the  bed  and  began 
to  weep  bitterly.  She  declared  she  could  not  bear  the 
thought  of  her  schoolgirl  friend  being  married.  "Don't 
do  it!  O,  Mary  don't  do  it!"  she  pleaded.  The  other 
girls  laughed  but  Rosalind  couldn't  stand  it.  She 
hurried  out  of  the  house. 

That  was  one  thing  that  had  happened  to  Rosalind 
and  there  were  other  things.  Once  she  saw  a  young 
man  on  the  street.  He  clerked  in  a  store  and  Rosalind 
did  not  know  him.  However  her  fancy  played  with 
the  thought  that  she  had  married  him.  Her  own 
thoughts  made  her  ashamed. 

Everything  shamed  her.  When  she  went  into  the 
orchard  on  summer  afternoons  she  sat  with  her  back 
against  the  apple  tree  and  took  off  her  shoes  and  stock 
ings  just  as  she  had  when  she  was  a  child,  but  the 
world  of  her  childhood  fancy  was  gone,  nothing  could 
bring  it  back. 

Rosalind's  body  was  soft  but  all  her  flesh  was  firm 
and  strong.  She  moved  away  from  the  tree  and  lay 
on  the  ground.  She  pressed  her  body  down  into  the 
grass,  into  the  firm  hard  ground.  It  seemed  to  her 


OUT    OF     NOWHERE     INTO     NOTHING      237 

that  her  mind,  her  fancy,  all  the  life  within  her,  ex 
cept  just  her  physical  life,  went  away.  The  earth 
pressed  upwards  against  her  body.  Her  body  was 
pressed  against  the  earth.  There  was  darkness.  She 
was  imprisoned.  She  pressed  against  the  walls  of  her 
prison.  Everything  was  dark  and  there  was  in  all 
the  earth  silence.  Her  fingers  clutched  a  handful  of 
the  grasses,  played  in  the  grasses. 

Then  she  grew  very  still  but  did  not  sleep.  There 
was  something  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  ground 
beneath  her  or  the  trees  or  the  clouds  in  the  sky,  that 
seemed  to  want  to  come  to  her,  come  into  her,  a  kind  of 
white  wonder  of  life. 

The  thing  couldn't  happen.  She  opened  her  eyes 
and  there  was  the  sky  overhead  and  the  trees  standing 
silently  about.  She  went  again  to  sit  with  her  back 
against  one  of  the  trees.  She  thought  with  dread  of 
the  evening  coming  on  and  the  necessity  of  going  out 
of  the  orchard  and  to  the  Wescott  house.  She  was 
weary.  It  was  the  weariness  that  made  her  appear  to 
others  a  rather  dull  stupid  young  women.  Where  was 
the  wonder  of  life?  It  was  not  within  herself,  not  in 
the  ground.  It  must  be  in  the  sky  overhead.  Pres 
ently  it  would  be  night  and  the  stars  would  come  out. 
Perhaps  the  wonder  did  not  really  exist  in  life.  It 
had  something  to  do  with  God.  She  wanted  to  ascend 
upwards,  to  go  at  once  up  into  God's  house,  to  be 
there  among  the  light  strong  men  and  women  who 


238       THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

had  died  and  left  dullness  and  heaviness  behind  them 
on  the  earth.  Thinking  of  them  took  some  of  her 
weariness  away  and  sometimes  she  went  out  of  the 
orchard  in  the  late  afternoon  walking  almost  lightly. 
Something  like  grace  seemed  to  have  come  into  her 
tall  strong  body. 

*       *       * 

Rosalind  had  gone  away  from  the  Wescott  house 
and  from  Willow  Springs,  Iowa,  feeling  that  life  was 
essentially  ugly.  In  a  way  she  hated  life  and  people. 
In  Chicago  sometimes  it  was  unbelievable  how  ugly 
the  world  had  become.  She  tried  to  shake  off  the 
feeling  but  it  clung  to  her.  She  walked  through  the 
crowded  streets  and  the  buildings  were  ugly.  A  sea  of 
faces  floated  up  to  her.  They  were  the  faces  of  dead 
people.  The  dull  death  that  was  in  them  was  in  her 
also.  They  too  could  not  break  through  the  walls  of 
themselves  to  the  white  wonder  of  life.  After  all 
perhaps  there  was  no  such  thing  as  the  white  wonder 
of  life.  It  might  be  just  a  thing  of  the  mind.  There 
was  something  essentially  dirty  about  life.  The  dirt 
was  on  her  and  in  her.  Once  as  she  walked  at  even 
ing  over  the  Rush  Street  bridge  to  her  room  on  the 
Ncfrth  Side  she  looked  up  suddenly  and  saw  the 
chrysoprase  river  running  inland  from  the  lake.  Near 
at  hand  stood  a  soap  factory.  The  men  of  the  city 
had  turned  the  river  about,  made  it  flow  inland  from 
the  lake.  Someone  had  erected  a  great  soap  factory 


OUT    OF     NOWHERE     INTO    NOTHING     239 

there  near  the  river's  entrance  to  the  city,  to  the  land 
of  men.  Rosalind  stopped  and  stood  looking  along 
the  river  toward  the  lake.  Men  and  women,  wagons, 
automobiles  rushed  past  her.  They  were  dirty.  She 
was  dirty.  "The  water  of  an  entire  sea  and  millions  of 
cakes  of  soap  will  not  wash  me  clean,"  she  thought. 
The  dirtiness  of  life  seemed  a  part  of  her  very  being 
and  an  almost  overwhelming  desire  to  climb  upon  the 
railing  of  the  bridge  and  leap  down  into  the  chrys- 
oprase  river  swept  over  her.  Her  body  trembled 
violently  and  putting  down  her  head  and  staring  at 
the  flooring  of  the  bridge  she  hurried  away. 

And  now  Rosalind,  a  grown  woman,  was  in  the 
Wescott  house  at  the  supper  table  with  her  father 
and  mother.  None  of  the  three  people  ate.  They 
fussed  about  with  the  food  Ma  Wescott  had  prepared. 
Rosalind  looked  at  her  mother  and  thought  of  what 
Melville  Stoner  had  said. 

"If  I  wanted  to  write  I'd  do  something.  I'd  tell 
what  everyone  thought.  It  would  startle  people, 
frighten  them  a  little,  eh  ?  I  would  tell  what  you  have 
been  thinking  this  afternoon  while  you  walked  here  on 
this  railroad  track  with  me.  I  would  tell  what  your 
mother  has  been  thinking  at  the  same  time  and  what 
she  would  like  to  say  to  you." 

What  had  Rosalind's  mother  been  thinking  all 
through  the  three  days  since  her  daughter  had  so  un- 


240      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

expectedly  come  home  from  Chicago?  What  did 
mothers  think  in  regard  to  the  lives  led  by  their 
daughters?  Had  mothers  something  of  importance 
to  say  to  daughters  and  if  they  did  when  did  the  time 
come  when  they  were  ready  to  say  it? 

She  looked  at  her  mother  sharply.  The  older 
woman's  face  was  heavy  and  sagging.  She  had  grey 
eyes  like  Rosalind's  but  they  were  dull  like  the  eyes 
of  a  fish  lying  on  a  slab  of  ice  in  the  window  of  a  city 
meat  market.  The  daughter  was  a  little  frightened  by 
what  she  saw  in  her  mother's  face  and  something 
caught  in  her  throat.  There  was  an  embarrassing 
moment.  A  strange  sort  of  tenseness  came  into  the 
air  of  the  room  and  all  three  people  suddenly  got  up 
from  the  table. 

Rosalind  went  to  help  her  mother  with  the  dishes 
and  her  father  sat  in  a  chair  by  a  window  and  read  a 
paper.  The  daughter  avoided  looking  again  into  her 
mother's  face.  "I  must  gather  myself  together  if  I 
am  to  do  what  I  want  to  do,"  she  thought.  It  was 
strange — in  fancy  she  saw  the  lean  bird-like  face  of 
Melville  Stoner  and  the  eager  tired  face  of  Walter 
Sayers  floating  above  the  head  of  her  mother  who 
leaned  over  the  kitchen  sink,  washing  the  dishes.  Both 
of  the  men's  faces  sneered  at  her.  "You  think  you 
can  but  you  can't.  You  are  a  young  fool,"  the  men's 
lips  seemed  to  be  saying. 

Rosalind's  father  wondered  how  long  his  daughter's 


OUT  OF  NOWHERE  INTO  NOTHING  24! 

visit  was  to  last.  After  the  evening  meal  he  wanted  to 
clear  out  of  the  house,  go  up  town,  and  he  had  a 
guilty  feeling  that  in  doing  so  he  was  being  dis 
courteous  to  his  daughter.  While  the  two  women 
washed  the  dishes  he  put  on  his  hat  and  going  into 
the  back  yard  began  chopping  wood.  Rosalind  went 
to  sit  on  the  front  porch.  The  dishes  were  all  washed 
and  dried  but  for  a  half  hour  her  mother  would  putter 
about  in  the  kitchen.  She  always  did  that.  She  would 
arrange  and  rearrange,  pick  up  dishes  and  put  them 
down  again.  She  clung  to  the  kitchen.  It  was  as 
though  she  dreaded  the  hours  that  must  pass  before  she 
could  go  upstairs  and  to  bed  and  asleep,  to  fall  into 
the  oblivion  of  sleep. 

When  Henry  Wescott  came  around  the  corner  of 
the  house  and  confronted  his  daughter  he  was  a  little 
startled.  He  did  not  know  what  was  the  matter  but 
he  felt  uncomfortable.  For  a  moment  he  stopped  and 
looked  at  her.  Life  radiated  from  her  figure.  A  fire 
burned  in  her  eyes,  in  her  grey  intense  eyes.  Her  hair 
was  yellow  like  cornsilk.  She  was,  at  the  moment,  a 
complete,  a  lovely  daughter  of  the  cornlands,  a  being 
to  be  loved  passionately,  completely  by  some  son  of  the 
cornlands — had  there  been  in  the  land  a  son  as  alive 
as  this  daughter  it  had  thrown  aside.  The  father  had 
hoped  to  escape  from  the  house  unnoticed.  "I'm  go 
ing  up  town  a  little  while,"  he  said  hesitatingly.  Still 
he  lingered  a  moment.  Some  old  sleeping  thing  awoke 


242      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

in  him,  was  awakened  in  him  by  the  startling  beauty  of 
his  daughter.  A  little  fire  flared  up  among  the  charred 
rafters  of  the  old  house  that  was  his  body.  uYou 
look  pretty,  girly,"  he  said  sheepishly  and  then  turned 
his  back  to  her  and  went  along  the  path  to  the  gate  and 
the  street. 

Rosalind  followed  her  father  to  the  gate  and  stood 
looking  as  he  went  slowly  along  the  short  street  and 
around  a  corner.  The  mood  induced  in  her  by  her 
talk  with  Melville  Stoner  had  returned.  Was  it  pos 
sible  that  her  father  also  felt  as  Melville  Stoner  some 
times  did?  Did  loneliness  drive  him  to  the  door  of 
insanity  and  did  he  also  run  through  the  night  seek 
ing  some  lost,  some  hidden  and  half  forgotten  loveli 
ness? 

When  her  father  had  disappeared  around  the  cor* 
ner  she  went  through  the  gate  and  into  the  street. 
"I'll  go  sit  by  the  tree  in  the  orchard  until  mother  has 
finished  puttering  about  the  kitchen,"  she  thought. 

Henry  Wescott  went  along  the  streets  until  he  came 
to  the  square  about  the  court  house  and  then  went  into 
Emanuel  Wilson's  Hardware  Store.  Two  or  three 
other  men  presently  joined  him  there.  Every  evening 
he  sat  among  these  men  of  his  town  saying  nothing. 
It  was  an  escape  from  his  own  house  and  his  wife. 
The  other  men  came  for  the  same  reason.  A  faint 
perverted  kind  of  male  fellowship  was  achieved.  One 
of  the  men  of  the  party,  a  little  old  man  who  followed 


OUT    OF    NOWHERE     INTO    NOTHING     243 

the  housepainters  trade,  was  unmarried  and  lived  with 
his  mother.  He  was  himself  nearing  the  age  of  sixty 
but  his  mother  was  still  alive.  It  was  a  thing  to  be 
wondered  about.  When  in  the  evening  the  house 
painter  was  a  trifle  late  at  the  rendezvous  a  mild  flurry 
of  speculation  arose,  floated  in  the  air  for  a  moment 
and  then  settled  like  dust  in  an  empty  house.  Did  the 
old  house  painter  do  the  housework  in  his  own  house, 
did  he  wash  the  dishes,  cook  the  food,  sweep  and  make 
the  beds  or  did  his  feeble  old  mother  do  these  things? 
Emanuel  Wilson  told  a  story  he  had  often  told 
before.  In  a  town  in  Ohio  where  he  had  lived  as  a 
young  man  he  had  once  heard  a  tale.  There  was  an 
old  man  like  the  house  painter  whose  mother  was  also 
still  alive  and  lived  with  him.  They  were  very  poor 
and  in  the  winter  had  not  enough  bedclothes  to  keep 
them  both  warm.  They  crawled  into  a  bed  together. 
It  was  an  innocent  enough  matter,  just  like  a  mother 
taking  her  child  into  her  bed. 

Henry  Wescott  sat  in  the  store  listening  to  the  tale 
Emanuel  Wilson  told  for  the  twentieth  time  and 
thought  about  his  daughter.  Her  beauty  made  him 
feel  a  little  proud,  a  little  above  the  men  who  were  his 
companions.  He  had  never  before  thought  of  his 
daughter  as  a  beautiful  woman.  Why  had  he  never 
before  noticed  her  beauty?  Why  had  she  come  from 
Chicago,  there  by  the  lake,  to  Willow  Springs,  in  the 
hot  month  of  August?  Had  she  come  home  from 


'44 


4PH      OF      THE      ECO 


Chicago  because  she  really  wanted  to  see  her  father 
and  mother?  For  a  moment  he  was  ashamed  of  hit 
own  heavy  body,  of  his  shabby  clothes  and  his  un 
shaven  face  and  then  the  tiny  flame  that  had 
up  within  him  burned  itself  out.  The  house  painter 
came  in  and  the  faint  flavor  of  male  companionship  to 
which  he  clung  so  tenaciously  was  reestablished 

In  the  orchard  Rosalind  sat  with  her  bade  against 
the  tree  in  the  same  fpot  where  her  fancy  had  created 
the  dancing  life  of  her  childhood  and  where  as  a  young 
woman  graduate  of  the  Willow  Springs  High 
the  had  come  to  try  to  break  through  the  wall  that 
separated  her  from  life.  The  sun  had  disappeared 
and  the  grey  shadows  of  night  were  creeping  over  the 
grass,  lengthening  the  shadows  cast  by  the  trees.  The 
orchard  had  long  been  neglected  and  many  of  the 
trees  were  dead  and  without  foliage.  The  shadows 
the  dead  branches  were  like  long  lean  arms 
reached  out,  felt  their  way  forward  over  the  grey 
graft.  Long  lean  fingers  reached  and  clutched.  There 
was  no  wind  and  the  night  would  be  dark  and  without 
a  moon,  a  hot  dark  starlit  night  of  the  plains. 

In  a  moment  more  it  would  be  black  night.  Already 
the  creeping  shadows  on  the  grass  were  barely  discern 
ible.  Rosalind  felt  death  all  about  her,  in  the  orchard, 
in  the  town.  Something  Walter  Sayers  had  once  said 
to  her  came  sharply  back  into  her  mind.  "When  you 


OUT    OF    NOWHERE    INTO    NOTHING     245 

are  in  the  country  alone  at  night  sometime  try  giving 
yourself  to  the  night,  to  the  darkness,  to  the  shadows 
cast  by  trees.  The  experience,  if  you  really  give  your 
self  to  it,  will  tell  you  a  startling  story.  You  will  find 
that,  although  the  white  men  have  owned  the  land  for 
several  generations  now  and  although  they  have  built 
towns  everywhere,  dug  coal  out  of  the  ground,  cov 
ered  the  land  with  railroads,  towns  and  cities,  they 
do  not  own  an  inch  of  the  land  in  the  whole  continent. 
It  still  belongs  to  a  race  who  in  their  physical  life 
are  now  dead.  The  red  men,  although  they  are  prac 
tically  all  gone  still  own  the  American  continent.  Their 
fancy  has  peopled  it  with  ghosts,  with  gods  and  devils. 
It  is  because  in  their  time  they  loved  the  land.  The 
proof  of  what  I  say  is  to  be  seen  everywhere.  We 
have  given  our  towns  no  beautiful  names  of  our  own 
because  we  have  not  built  the  towns  beautifully.  When 
an  American  town  has  a  beautiful  name  it  was  stolen 
from  another  race,  from  a  race  that  still  owns  the 
land  in  which  we  live.  We  are  all  strangers  here. 
When  you  are  alone  at  night  in  the  country,  anywhere 
in  America,  try  giving  yourself  to  the  night.  You 
will  find  that  death  only  resides  in  the  conquering 
whites  and  that  life  remains  in  the  red  men  who  are 
gone." 

The  spirits  of  the  two  men,  Walter  Sayers  and  Mel 
ville  Stoner,  dominated  the  mind  of  Rosalind.  She 
felt  that.  It  was  as  though  they  were  beside  her,  sit- 


246      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

ting  beside  her  on  the  grass  in  the  orchard.  She  was 
quite  certain  that  Melville  Stoner  had  come  back  to 
his  house  and  was  now  sitting  within  sound  of  her 
voice,  did  she  raise  her  voice  to  call.  What  did  they 
want  her  of  her?  Had  she  suddenly  begun  to  love 
two  men,  both  older  than  herself?  The  shadows  of 
the  branches  of  trees  made  a  carpet  on  the  floor  of 
the  orchard,  a  soft  carpet  spun  of  some  delicate  ma 
terial  on  which  the  footsteps  of  men  could  make  no 
sound.  The  two  men  were  coming  toward  her,  ad 
vancing  over  the  carpet.  Melville  Stoner  was  near 
at  hand  and  Walter  Sayers  was  coming  from  far  away, 
out  of  the  distance.  The  spirit  of  him  was  creeping 
toward  her.  The  two  men  were  in  accord.  They  came 
bearing  some  male  knowledge  of  life,  something  they 
wanted  to  give  her. 

She  arose  and  stood  by  the  tree,  trembling.  Into 
what  a  state  she  had  got  herself !  How  long  would  it 
endure?  Into  what  knowledge  of  life  and  death  was 
she  being  led?  She  had  come  home  on  a  simple  mis 
sion.  She  loved  Walter  Sayers,  wanted  to  offer  her 
self  to  him  but  before  doing  so  had  felt  the  call  to 
come  home  to  her  mother.  She  had  thought  she  would 
be  bold  and  would  tell  her  mother  the  story  of  her 
love.  She  would  tell  her  and  then  take  what  the  older 
woman  offered.  If  her  mother  understood  and 
sympathized,  well  that  would  be  a  beautiful  thing  to 
have  happen.  If  her  mother  did  not  understand — at 


OUT     OF     NOWHERE     INTO     NOTHING      247 

any  rate  she  would  have  paid  some  old  debt,  would 
have  been  true  to  some  old,  unexpressed  obligation. 

The  two  men — what  did  they  want  of  her?  What 
had  Melville  Stoner  to  do  with  the  matter?  She  put 
the  figure  of  him  out  of  her  mind.  In  the  figure  of 
the  other  man,  Walter  Sayers,  there  was  something 
less  aggressive,  less  assertive.  She  clung  to  that. 

She  put  her  arm  about  the  trunk  of  the  old  apple 
tree  and  laid  her  cheek  against  its  rough  bark.  Within 
herself  she  was  so  intense,  so  excited  that  she  wanted 
to  rub  her  cheeks  against  the  bark  of  the  tree  until 
the  blood  came,  until  physical  pain  came  to  counter 
act  the  tenseness  within  that  had  become  pain. 

Since  the  meadow  between  the  orchard  and  the 
street  end  had  been  planted  to  corn  she  would  have  to 
reach  the  street  by  going  along  a  lane,  crawling  under 
a  wire  fence  and  crossing  the  yard  of  the  widowed 
chicken  raiser.  A  profound  silence  reigned  over  the 
orchard  and  when  she  had  crawled  under  the  fence 
and  reached  the  widow's  back  yard  she  had  to  feel  her 
way  through  a  narrow  opening  between  a  chicken 
house  and  a  barn  by  running  her  fingers  forward  over 
the  rough  boards. 

Her  mother  sat  on  the  porch  waiting  and  on  the 
narrow  porch  before  his  house  next  door  sat  Melville 
Stoner.  She  saw  him  as  she  hurried  past  and  shivered 
slightly.  "What  a  dark  vulture-like  thing  he  is!  He 
lives  off  the  dead,  off  dead  glimpses  of  beauty,  off  dead 


248       THE      TRIUMPH       OF      THE       EGG 

old  sounds  heard  at  night/*  she  thought.  When  she 
got  to  the  Wescott  house  she  threw  herself  down  on 
the  porch  and  lay  on  her  back  with  her  arms  stretched 
above  her  head.  Her  mother  sat  on  a  rocking  chair 
beside  her.  There  was  a  street  lamp  at  the  corner 
at  the  end  of  the  street  and  a  little  light  came  through 
the  branches  of  trees  and  lighted  her  mother's  face. 
How  white  and  still  and  death-like  it  was.  When  she 
had  looked  Rosalind  closed  her  eyes.  "I  mustn't.  I 
shall  lose  courage,"  she  thought. 

There  was  no  hurry  about  delivering  the  message 
she  had  come  to  deliver.  It  would  be  two  hours  be 
fore  her  father  came  home.  The  silence  of  the  village 
street  was  broken  by  a  hubbub  that  arose  in  the  house 
across  the  street.  Two  boys  playing  some  game  ran 
from  room  to  room  through  the  house,  slamming 
doors,  shouting.  A  baby  began  to  cry  and  then  a 
woman's  voice  protested.  "Quit  it!  Quit  it!"  the 
voice  called.  "Don't  you  see  you  have  wakened  the 
baby?  Now  I  shall  have  a  time  getting  him  to  sleep 
again." 

Rosalind's  fingers  closed  and  her  hands  remained 
clenched.  "I  came  home  to  tell  you  something.  I  have 
fallen  in  love  with  a  man  and  can't  marry  him.  He  is 
a  good  many  years  older  than  myself  and  is  already 
married.  He  has  two  children.  I  love  him  and  I 
think  he  loves  me — I  know  he  does.  I  want  him  to 
have  me  too.  I  wanted  to  come  home  and  tell  you  be- 


OUT    OF     NOWHERE     INTO     NOTHING     249 

fore  it  happened,"  she  said  speaking  in  a  low  clear 
voice.  She  wondered  if  Melville  Stoner  could  hear 
her  declaration. 

Nothing  happened.  The  chair  in  which  Rosalind's 
mother  sat  had  been  rocking  slowly  back  and  forth  and 
making  a  slight  creaking  sound.  The  sound  continued. 
In  the  house  across  the  street  the  baby  stopped  crying. 
The  words  Rosalind  had  come  from  Chicago  to  say 
to  her  mother  were  said  and  she  felt  relieved  and  al 
most  happy.  The  silence  between  the  two  women  went 
on  and  on.  Rosalind's  mind  wandered  away.  Pres 
ently  there  would  be  some  sort  of  reaction  from  her 
mother.  She  would  be  condemned.  Perhaps  her 
mother  would  say  nothing  until  her  father  came  home 
and  would  then  tell  him.  She  would  be  condemned  as 
a  wicked  woman,  ordered  to  leave  the  house.  It  did 
not  matter. 

Rosalind  waited.  Like  Walter  Sayers,  sitting  in  his 
garden,  her  mind  seemed  to  float  away,  out  of  her 
body.  It  ran  away  from  her  mother  to  the  man  she 
loved. 

One  evening,  on  just  such  another  quiet  summer 
evening  as  this  one,  she  had  gone  into  the  country  with 
Walter  Sayers.  Before  that  he  had  talked  to  her,  at 
her,  on  many  other  evenings  and  during  long  hours  in 
the  office.  He  had  found  in  her  someone  to  whom  he 
could  talk,  to  whom  he  wanted  to  talk.  What  doors 
of  life  he  had  opened  for  her!  The  talk  had  gone  on 


250      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

and  on.  In  her  presence  the  man  was  relieved,  he  re 
laxed  out  of  the  tenseness  that  had  become  the  habit  of 
his  body.  He  had  told  her  of  how  he  had  wanted  to 
be  a  singer  and  had  given  up  the  notion.  "It  isn't  my 
wife's  fault  nor  the  children's  fault,"  he  had  said. 
"They  could  have  lived  without  me.  The  trouble  is  I 
could  not  have  lived  without  them.  I  am  a  defeated 
man,  was  intended  from  the  first  to  be  a  defeated  man 
and  I  needed  something  to  cling  to,  something  with 
which  to  justify  my  defeat.  I  realize  that  now.  I  am 
a  dependent.  I  shall  never  try  to  sing  now  because  I 
am  one  who  has  at  least  one  merit.  I  know  defeat.  I 
can  accept  defeat." 

That  is  what  Walter  Sayers  had  said  and  then  on 
the  summer  evening  in  the  country  as  she  sat  beside  him 
in  his  car  he  had  suddenly  begun  to  sing.  He  had 
opened  a  farm  gate  and  had  driven  the  car  silently 
along  a  grass  covered  lane  and  into  a  meadow.  The 
lights  had  been  put  out  and  the  car  crept  along.  When 
it  stopped  some  cattle  came  and  stood  nearby. 

Then  he  began  to  sing,  softly  at  first  and  with  in 
creasing  boldness  as  he  repeated  the  song  over  and 
over.  Rosalind  was  so  happy  she  had  wanted  to  cry 
out.  "It  is  because  of  myself  he  can  sing  now,"  she  had 
thought  proudly.  How  intensely,  at  the  moment  she 
loved  the  man,  and  yet  perhaps  the  thing  she  felt  was 
not  love  after  all.  There  was  pride  in  it.  It  was  for  her 
a  moment  of  triumph.  He  had  crept  up  to  her  out  of 


OUT     OF     NOWHERE     INTO     NOTHING      251 

a  dark  place,  out  of  the  dark  cave  of  defeat.  It  had 
been  her  hand  reached  down  that  had  given  him  cour 
age. 

She  lay  on  her  back,  at  her  mother's  feet,  on  the 
porch  of  the  Wescott  house  trying  to  think,  striving 
to  get  her  own  impulses  clear  in  her  mind.  She  had 
just  told  her  mother  that  she  wanted  to  give  herself 
to  the  man,  Walter  Sayers.  Having  made  the  state 
ment  she  already  wondered  if  it  could  be  quite  true. 
She  was  a  woman  and  her  mother  was  a  woman.  What 
would  her  mother  have  to  say  to  her?  What  did 
mothers  say  to  daughters?  The  male  element  in  life 
— what  did  it  want?  Her  own  desires  and  impulses 
were  not  clearly  realized  within  herself.  Perhaps 
what  she  wanted  in  life  could  be  got  in  some  sort  of 
communion  with  another  woman,  with  her  mother. 
What  a  strange  and  beautiful  thing  it  would  be  if 
mothers  could  suddenly  begin  to  sing  to  their  daughters, 
if  out  of  the  darkness  and  silence  of  old  women  song 
could  come. 

Men  confused  Rosalind,  they  had  always  confused 
her.  On  that  very  evening  her  father  for  the  first 
time  in  years  had  really  looked  at  her.  He  had 
stopped  before  her  as  she  sat  on  the  porch  and  there 
had  been  something  in  his  eyes.  A  fire  had  burned  in 
his  old  eyes  as  it  had  sometimes  burned  in  the  eyes  of 
Walter.  Was  the  fire  intended  to  consume  her  quite? 


252       THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

Was  it  the  fate  of  women  to  be  consumed  by  men  and 
of  men  to  be  consumed  by  women? 

In  the  orchard,  an  hour  before  she  had  distinctly 
felt  the  two  men,  Melville  Stoner  and  Walter  Sayers 
coming  toward  her,  walking  silently  on  the  soft  car 
pet  made  of  the  dark  shadows  of  trees. 

They  were  again  coming  toward  her.  In  their 
thoughts  they  approached  nearer  and  nearer  to  her,  to 
the  inner  truth  of  her.  The  street  and  the  town  of 
Willow  Springs  were  covered  with  a  mantle  of  silence. 
Was  it  the  silence  of  death?  Had  her  mother  died? 
Did  her  mother  sit  there  now  a  dead  thing  in  the 
chair  beside  her? 

The  soft  creaking  of  the  rocking  chair  went  on  and 
on.  Of  the  two  men  whose  spirits  seemed  hovering 
about  one,  Melville  Stoner,  was  bold  and  cunning. 
He  was  too  close  to  her,  knew  too  much  of  her.  He 
was  unafraid.  The  spirit  of  Walter  Sayers  was  merci 
ful.  He  was  gentle,  a  man  of  understanding.  She 
grew  afraid  of  Melville  Stoner.  He  was  too  close  to 
her,  knew  too  much  of  the  dark,  stupid  side  of  her  life. 
She  turned  on  her  side  and  stared  into  the  darkness 
toward  the  Stoner  house  remembering  her  girlhood. 
The  man  was  too  physically  close.  The  faint  light  from 
the  distant  street  lamp  that  had  lighted  her  mother's 
face  crept  between  branches  of  trees  and  over  the  tops 
of  bushes  and  she  could  see  dimly  the  figure  of  Mel 
ville  Stoner  sitting  before  his  house.  She  wished  it 


OUT    OF    NOWHERE    INTO    NOTHING     253 

were  possible  with  a  thought  to  destroy  him,  wipe  him 
out,  cause  him  to  cease  to  exist.  He  was  waiting. 
When  her  mother  had  gone  to  bed  and  when  she  had 
gone  upstairs  to  her  own  room  to  lie  awake  he  would 
invade  her  privacy.  Her  father  would  come  home, 
walking  with  dragging  footsteps  along  the  sidewalk. 
He  would  come  into  the  Wescott  house  and  through 
to  the  back  door.  He  would  pump  the  pail  of  water 
at  the  pump  and  bring  it  into  the  house  to  put  it  on 
the  box  by  the  kitchen  sink.  Then  he  would  wind  the 
clock.  He  would — 

Rosalind  stirred  uneasily.  Life  in  the  figure  of 
Melville  Stoner  had  her,  it  gripped  her  tightly.  She 
could  not  escape.  He  would  come  into  her  bedroom 
and  invade  her  secret  thoughts.  There  was  no  escape 
for  her.  She  imagined  his  mocking  laughter  ringing 
through  the  silent  house,  the  sound  rising  above  the 
dreadful  commonplace  sounds  of  everyday  life  there. 
She  did  not  want  that  to  happen.  The  sudden  death 
of  Melville  Stoner  would  bring  sweet  silence.  She 
wished  it  possible  with  a  thought  to  destroy  him,  to 
destroy  all  men.  She  wanted  her  mother  to  draw  close 
to  her.  That  would  save  her  from  the  men.  Surely, 
before  the  evening  had  passed  her  mother  would  have 
something  to  say,  somthing  living  and  true. 

Rosalind  forced  the  figure  of  Melville  Stoner  out 
of  her  mind.  It  was  as  though  she  had  got  out  of  her 
bed  in  the  room  upstairs  and  had  taken  the  man  by  the 


254      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

arm  to  lead  him  to  the  door.  She  had  put  him  out  of 
the  room  and  had  closed  the  door. 

Her  mind  played  her  a  trick.  Melville  Stoner  had 
no  sooner  gone  out  of  her  mind  than  Walter  Sayers 
came  in.  In  imagination  she  was  with  Walter  in  the 
car  on  the  summer  evening  in  the  pasture  and  he  was 
singing.  The  cattle  with  their  soft  broad  noses  and 
the  sweet  grass-flavored  breaths  were  crowding  in 
close. 

There  was  sweetness  in  Rosalind's  thoughts  now. 
She  rested  and  waited,  waited  for  her  mother  to  speak. 
In  her  presence  Walter  Sayers  had  broken  his  long 
silence  and  soon  the  old  silence  between  mother  and 
daughter  would  also  be  broken. 

The  singer  who  would  not  sing  had  begun  to  sing 
because  of  her  presence.  Song  was  the  true  note  of 
life,  it  was  the  triumph  of  life  over  death. 

What  sweet  solace  had  come  to  her  that  time  when 
Walter  Sayers  sang!  How  life  had  coursed  through 
her  body!  How  alive  she  had  suddenly  become!  It 
was  at  that  moment  she  had  decided  definitely,  finally, 
that  she  wanted  to  come  closer  to  the  man,  that  she 
wanted  with  him  the  ultimate  physical  closeness — to 
find  in  physical  expression  through  him  what  in  his 
song  he  was  finding  through  her. 

It  was  in  expressing  physically  her  love  of  the  man 
she  would  find  the  white  wonder  of  life,  the  wonder 
of  which,  as  a  clumsy  and  crude  girl,  she  had  dreamed 


OUT    OF     NOWHERE     INTO    NOTHING     255 

as  she  lay  on  the  grass  in  the  orchard.  Through  the 
body  of  the  singer  she  would  approach,  touch  the 
white  wonder  of  life.  "I  shall  willingly  sacrifice 
everything  else  on  the  chance  that  may  happen,"  she 
thought. 

How  peaceful  and  quiet  the  summer  night  had  be 
come!  How  clearly  now  she  understood  life!  The 
song  Walter  Sayers  had  sung  in  the  field,  in  the 
presence  of  the  cattle  was  in  a  tongue  she  had  not 
understood,  but  now  she  understood  everything,  even 
the  meaning  of  the  strange  foreign  words. 

The  song  was  about  life  and  death.  What  else 
was  there  to  sing  about?  The  sudden  knowledge  of 
the  content  of  the  song  had  not  come  out  of  her  own 
mind.  The  spirit  of  Walter  was  coming  toward  her. 
It  had  pushed  the  mocking  spirit  of  Melville  Stoner 
aside.  What  things  had  not  the  mind  of  Walter 
Sayers  already  done  to  her  mind,  to  the  awakening 
woman  within  her.  Now  it  was  telling  her  the  story 
of  the  song.  The  words  of  the  song  itself  seemed  to 
float  down  the  silent  street  of  the  Iowa  town.  They 
described  the  sun  going  down  in  the  smoke  clouds  of 
a  city  and  the  gulls  coming  from  a  lake  to  float  over 
the  city. 

Now  the  gulls  floated  over  a  river.  The  river  was 
the  color  of  chrysoprase.  She,  Rosalind  Wescott, 
stood  on  a  bridge  in  the  heart  of  the  city  and  she  had 
become  entirely  convinced  of  the  filth  and  ugliness  of 


256      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

life.  She  was  about  to  throw  herself  into  the  river,  to 
destroy  herself  in  an  effort  to  make  herself  clean. 

It  did  not  matter.  Strange  sharp  cries  came  from 
the  birds.  The  cries  of  the  birds  were  like  the  voice 
of  Melville  Stoner.  They  whirled  and  turned  in  the 
air  overhead.  In  a  moment  more  she  would  throw 
herself  into  the  river  and  then  the  birds  would  fall 
straight  down  in  a  long  graceful  line.  The  body  of 
her  would  be  gone,  swept  away  by  the  stream,  carried 
away  to  decay  but  what  was  really  alive  in  herself 
would  arise  with  the  birds,  in  the  long  graceful  upward 
line  of  the  flight  of  the  birds. 

Rosalind  lay  tense  and  still  on  the  porch  at  her 
mother's  feet.  In  the  air  above  the  hot  sleeping  town, 
buried  deep  in  the  ground  beneath  all  towns  and  cities, 
life  went  on  singing,  it  persistently  sang.  The  song  of 
life  was  in  the  humming  of  bees,  in  the  calling  of  tree 
toads,  in  the  throats  of  negroes  rolling  cotton  bales  on 
a  boat  in  a  river. 

The  song  was  a  command.  It  told  over  and  over 
the  story  of  life  and  of  death,  life  forever  defeated 
by  death,  death  forever  defeated  by  life. 


The  long  silence  of  Rosalind's  mother  was  broken 
and  Rosalind  tried  to  tear  herself  away  from  the  spirit 
of  the  song  that  had  begun  to  sing  itself  within  her — 


OUT    OF     NOWHERE     INTO     NOTHING     257 

The  sun  sank  down  into  the  western  sky  over 
a  city — 

Life  defeated  by  death, 
Death  defeated  by  life. 

The  factory  chimneys  had  become  pencils  of 
light- 
Life  defeated  by  death, 
Death  defeated  by  life. 

The  rocking  chair  in  which  Rosalind's  mother  sat 
kept  creaking.  Words  came  haltingly  from  between 
her  white  lips.  The  test  of  Ma  Wescott's  life  had 
come.  Always  she  had  been  defeated.  Now  she  must 
triumph  in  the  person  of  Rosalind,  the  daughter  who 
had  come  out  of  her  body.  To  her  she  must  make 
clear  the  fate  of  all  women.  Young  girls  grew  up 
dreaming,  hoping,  believing.  There  was  a  conspiracy. 
Men  made  words,  they  wrote  books  and  sang  songs 
about  a  thing  called  love.  Young  girls  believed.  They 
married  or  entered  into  close  relationships  with  men 
without  marriage.  On  the  marriage  night  there  was 
a  brutal  assault  and  after  that  the  woman  had  to  try 
to  save  herself  as  best  she  could.  She  withdrew 
within  herself,  further  and  further  within  herself.  Ma 
Wescott  had  stayed  all  her  life  hidden  away  within 
her  own  house,  in  the  kitchen  of  her  house.  As  the 
years  passed  and  after  the  children  came  her  man  had 
demanded  less  and  less  of  her.  Now  this  new  trouble 


258       THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE 

had  come.  Her  daughter  was  to  have  the  same  ex 
perience,  to  go  through  the  experience  that  had  spoiled 
life  for  her. 

How  proud  she  had  been  of  Rosalind,  going  out  into 
the  world,  making  her  own  way.  Her  daughter  dressed 
with  a  certain  air,  walked  with  a  certain  air.  She  was 
a  proud,  upstanding,  triumphant  thing.  She  did  not 
need  a  man. 

"God,  Rosalind,  don't  do  it,  don't  do  it,"  she  mut 
tered  over  and  over. 

How  much  she  had  wanted  Rosalind  to  keep  clear 
and  clean!  Once  she  also  had  been  a  young  woman, 
proud,  upstanding.  Could  anyone  think  she  had  ever 
wanted  to  become  Ma  Wescott,  fat,  heavy  and  old? 
All  through  her  married  life  she  had  stayed  in  her  own 
house,  in  the  kitchen  of  her  own  house,  but  in  her  own 
way  she  had  watched,  she  had  seen  how  things  went 
with  women.  Her  man  had  known  how  to  make 
money,  he  had  always  housed  her  comfortably.  He 
was  a  slow,  silent  man  but  in  his  own  way  he  was  as 
good  as  any  of  the  men  of  Willow  Springs.  Men 
worked  for  money,  they  ate  heavily  and  then  at  night 
they  came  home  to  the  woman  they  had  married. 

Before  she  married,  Ma  Wescott  had  been  a  farm 
er's  daughter.  She  had  seen  things  among  the  beasts, 
how  the  male  pursued  the  female.  There  was  a  cer 
tain  hard  insistence,  cruelty.  Life  perpetuated  itself 
that  way.  The  time  of  her  own  marriage  was  a  dim, 


OUT    OF    NOWHERE     INTO    NOTHING     259 

terrible  time.  Why  had  she  wanted  to  marry?  She 
tried  to  tell  Rosalind  about  it.  "I  saw  him  on  the 
Main  Street  of  town  here,  one  Saturday  evening  when 
I  had  come  to  town  with  father,  and  two  weeks  after 
that  I  met  him  again  at  a  dance  out  in  the  country," 
she  said.  She  spoke  like  one  who  has  been  running  a 
long  distance  and  who  has  some  important,  some  im 
mediate  message  to  deliver.  "He  wanted  me  to  marry 
him  and  I  did  it.  He  wanted  me  to  marry  him  and  I 
did  it." 

She  could  not  get  beyond  the  fact  of  her  marriage. 
Did  her  daughter  think  she  had  no  vital  thing  to  say 
concerning  the  relationship  of  men  and  women?  All 
through  her  married  life  she  had  stayed  in  her  hus 
band's  house,  working  as  a  beast  might  work,  washing 
dirty  clothes,  dirty  dishes,  cooking  food. 

She  had  been  thinking,  all  through  the  years  she 
had  been  thinking.  There  was  a  dreadful  lie  in  life, 
the  whole  fact  of  life  was  a  lie. 

She  had  thought  it  all  out.  There  was  a  world 
somewhere  unlike  the  world  in  which  she  lived.  It 
was  a  heavenly  place  in  which  there  was  no  marrying 
or  giving  in  marriage,  a  sexless  quiet  windless  place 
where  mankind  lived  in  a  state  of  bliss.  For  some  un 
known  reason  mankind  had  been  thrown  out  of  that 
place,  had  been  thrown  down  upon  the  earth.  It  was 
a  punishment  for  an  unforgivable  sin,  the  sin  of  sex. 

The  sin  had  been  in  her  as  well  as  in  the  man  she 


26O      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

had  married.  She  had  wanted  to  marry.  Why  else 
did  she  do  it?  Men  and  women  were  condemned  to 
commit  the  sin  that  destroyed  them.  Except  for  a  few 
rare  sacred  beings  no  man  or  woman  escaped. 

What  thinking  she  had  done !  When  she  had  just 
married  and  after  her  man  had  taken  what  he  wanted 
of  her  he  slept  heavily  but  she  did  not  sleep.  She  crept 
out  of  bed  and  going  to  a  window  looked  at  the  stars. 
The  stars  were  quiet.  With  what  a  slow  stately  tread 
the  moon  moved  across  the  sky.  The  stars  did  not  sin. 
They  did  not  touch  one  another.  Each  star  was  a 
thing  apart  from  all  other  stars,  a  sacred  inviolate 
thing.  On  the  earth,  under  the  stars  everything  was 
corrupt,  the  trees,  flowers,  grasses,  the  beasts  of  the 
field,  men  and  women.  They  were  all  corrupt.  They 
lived  for  a  moment  and  then  fell  into  decay.  She  her 
self  was  falling  into  decay.  Life  was  a  lie.  Life  per 
petuated  itself  by  the  lie  called  love.  The  truth  was 
that  life  itself  came  out  of  sin,  perpetuated  itself  only 
by  sin. 

"There  is  no  such  thing  as  love.  The  word  is  a  lie. 
The  man  you  are  telling  me  about  wants  you  for  the 
purpose  of  sin,"  she  said  and  getting  heavily  up  went 
into  the  house. 

Rosalind  heard  her  moving  about  in  the  darkness. 
She  came  to  the  screen  door  and  stood  looking  at  her 
daughter  lying  tense  and  waiting  on  the  porch.  The 
passion  of  denial  was  so  strong  in  her  that  she  felt 


OUT    OF     NOWHERE     INTO     NOTHING     261 

choked.  To  the  daughter  it  seemed  that  her  mother 
standing  in  the  darkness  behind  her  had  become  a 
great  spider,  striving  to  lead  her  down  into  some  web 
of  darkness.  "Men  only  hurt  women,"  she  said,  "they 
can't  help  wanting  to  hurt  women.  They  are  made 
that  way.  The  thing  they  call  love  doesn't  exist.  It's 
a  lie." 

"Life  is  dirty.  Letting  a  man  touch  her  dirties  a 
woman."  Ma  Wescott  fairly  screamed  forth  the 
words.  They  seemed  torn  from  her,  from  some  deep 
inner  part  of  her  being.  Having  said  them  she  moved 
off  into  the  darkness  and  Rosalind  heard  her  going 
slowly  toward  the  stairway  that  led  to  the  bedroom 
above.  She  was  weeping  in  the  peculiar  half  choked 
way  in  which  old  fat  women  weep.  The  heavy  feet 
that  had  begun  to  mount  the  stair  stopped  and  there 
was  silence.  Ma  Wescott  had  said  nothing  of  what 
was  in  her  mind.  She  had  thought  it  all  out,  what  she 
wanted  to  say  to  her  daughter.  Why  would  the  words 
not  come?  The  passion  for  denial  within  her  was  not 
satisfied.  "There  is  no  love.  Life  is  a  lie.  It  leads 
to  sin,  to  death  and  decay,"  she  called  into  the  dark 
ness. 

A  strange,  almost  uncanny  thing  happened  to  Rosa 
lind,  The  figure  of  her  mother  went  out  of  her  mind 
and  she  was  in  fancy  again  a  young  girl  and  had  gone 
with  other  young  girls  to  visit  a  friend  about  to  be 
married.  With  the  others  she  stood  in  a  room  where 


262       THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

white  dresses  lay  on  a  bed.  One  of  her  companions, 
a  thin,  flat  breasted  girl  fell  on  her  knees  beside  the 
bed.  A  cry  arose.  Did  it  come  from  the  girl  or  from 
the  old  tired  defeated  woman  within  the  Wescott 
house?  "Don't  do  it.  O,  Rosalind  don't  do  it," 
pleaded  a  voice  broken  with  sobs. 

The  Wescott  house  had  become  silent  like  the  street 
outside  and  like  the  sky  sprinkled  with  stars  into  which 
Rosalind  gazed.  The  tenseness  within  her  relaxed  and 
she  tried  again  to  think.  There  was  a  thing  that  bal 
anced,  that  swung  backward  and  forward.  Was  it 
merely  her  heart  beating?  Her  mind  cleared. 

The  song  that  had  come  from  the  lips  of  Walter 
Sayers  was  still  singing  within  her — 

Life  the  conqueror  over  death, 
Death  the  conqueror  over  life. 

She  sat  up  and  put  her  head  into  her  hands.  "I 
came  here  to  Willow  Springs  to  put  myself  to  a  test. 
Is  it  the  test  of  life  and  death?"  she  asked  herself. 
Her  mother  had  gone  up  the  stairway,  into  the  dark 
ness  of  the  bedroom  above. 

The  song  singing  within  Rosalind  went  on — 

Life  the  conquerer  over  death, 
Death  the  conquerer  over  life. 

Was  the  song  a  male  thing,  the  call  of  the  male  to 
the  female,  a  lie,  as  her  mother  had  said?  It  did  not 


OUT    OF     NOWHERE     INTO     NOTHING      263 

sound  like  a  lie.  The  song  had  come  from  the  lips  of 
the  man  Walter  and  she  had  left  him  and  had  come 
to  her  mother.  Then  Melville  Stoner,  another  male, 
had  come  to  her.  In  him  also  was  singing  the  song 
of  life  and  death.  When  the  song  stopped  singing 
within  one  did  death  come?  Was  death  but  denial? 
The  song  was  singing  within  herself.  What  a  con 
fusion  I 

After  her  last  outcry  Ma  Wescott  had  gone  weeping 
up  the  stairs  and  to  her  own  room  and  to  bed.  After 
a  time  Rosalind  followed.  She  threw  herself  onto  her 
own  bed  without  undressing.  Both  women  lay  waiting. 
Outside  in  the  darkness  before  his  house  sat  Melville 
Stoner,  the  male,  the  man  who  knew  of  all  that  had 
passed  between  mother  and  daughter.  Rosalind 
thought  of  the  bridge  over  the  river  near  the  factory 
in  the  city  and  of  the  gulls  floating  in  the  air  high  above 
the  river.  She  wished  herself  there,  standing  on  the 
bridge.  "It  would  be  sweet  now  to  throw  my  body 
down  into  the  river,"  she  thought.  She  imagined  her 
self  falling  swiftly  and  the  swifter  fall  of  the  birds 
down  out  of  the  sky.  They  were  swooping  down  to 
pick  up  the  life  she  was  ready  to  drop,  sweeping  swiftly 
and  beautifully  down.  That  was  what  the  song  Wal 
ter  had  sung  was  about. 

Henry  Wescott  came  home  from  his  evening  at 
Emanuel  Wilson's  store.  He  went  heavily  through  the 


264      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE       EGG 

house  to  the  back  door  and  the  pump.  There  was  the 
slow  creaking  sound  of  the  pump  working  and  then  he 
came  into  the  house  and  put  the  pail  of  water  on  the 
box  by  the  kitchen  sink.  A  little  of  the  water  spilled. 
There  was  a  soft  little  slap — like  a  child's  bare  feet 
striking  the  floor — 

Rosalind  arose.  The  dead  cold  weariness  that  had 
settled  down  upon  her  went  away.  Cold  dead  hands 
had  been  gripping  her.  Now  they  were  swept  aside. 
Her  bag  was  in  a  closet  but  she  had  forgotten  it. 
Quickly  she  took  off  her  shoes  and  holding  them  in  her 
hands  went  out  into  the  hall  in  her  stockinged  feet. 
Her  father  came  heavily  up  the  stairs  past  her  as  she 
stood  breathless  with  her  body  pressed  against  the  wall 
in  the  hallway. 

How  quick  and  alert  her  mind  had  become !  There 
was  a  train  Eastward  bound  toward  Chicago  that 
passed  through  Willow  Springs  at  two  in  the  morning. 
She  would  not  wait  for  it.  She  would  walk  the  eight 
miles  to  the  next  town  to  the  east.  That  would  get 
her  out  of  town.  It  would  give  her  something  to  do. 
"I  need  to  be  moving  now,"  she  thought  as  she  ran 
down  the  stairs  and  went  silently  out  of  the  house. 

She  walked  on  the  grass  beside  the  sidewalk  to  the 
gate  before  Melville  Stoner's  house  and  he  came  down 
to  the  gate  to  meet  her.  He  laughed  mockingly.  "I 
fancied  I  might  have  another  chance  to  walk  with  you 
before  the  night  was  gone,"  he  said  bowing.  Rosa- 


OUT    OF     NOWHERE     INTO     NOTHING      265 

lind  did  not  know  how  much  of  the  conversation  be 
tween  herself  and  her  mother  he  had  heard.  It  did  not 
matter.  He  knew  all  Ma  Wescott  had  said,  all  she 
could  say  and  all  Rosalind  could  say  or  understand. 
The  thought  was  infinitely  sweet  to  Rosalind.  It  was 
Melville  Stoner  who  lifted  the  town  of  Willow  Springs 
up  out  of  the  shadow  of  death.  Words  were  unnec 
essary.  With  him  she  had  established  the  thing  beyond 
words,  beyond  passion — the  fellowship  in  living,  the 
fellowship  in  life. 

They  walked  in  silence  to  the  town's  edge  and  then 
Melville  Stoner  put  out  his  hand.  "You'll  come  with 
me?"  she  asked,  but  he  shook  his  head  and  laughed. 
"No,"  he  said,  "I'll  stay  here.  My  time  for  going 
passed  long  ago.  I'll  stay  here  until  I  die.  I'll  stay 
here  with  my  thoughts." 

He  turned  and  walked  away  into  the  darkness  be 
yond  the  round  circle  of  light  cast  by  the  last  street 
lamp  on  the  street  that  now  became  a  country  road 
leading  to  the  next  town  to  the  east.  Rosalind  stood 
to  watch  him  go  and  something  in  his  long  loping  gait 
again  suggested  to  her  mind  the  figure  of  a  gigantic 
bird.  "He  is  like  the  gulls  that  float  above  the  river  in 
Chicago,"  she  thought.  "His  spirit  floats  above  the 
town  of  Willow  Springs.  When  the  death  in  life  comes 
to  the  people  here  he  swoops  down,  with  his  mind, 
plucking  out  the  beauty  of  them." 

She  walked  at  first  slowly  along  the  road  between 


266      THE      TRIUMPH      OF      THE      EGG 

corn  fields.  The  night  was  a  vast  quiet  place  into 
which  she  could  walk  in  peace.  A  little  breeze  rustled 
the  corn  blades  but  there  were  no  dreadful  significant 
human  sounds,  the  sounds  made  by  those  who  lived 
physically  but  who  in  spirit  were  dead,  had  accepted 
death,  believed  only  in  death.  The  corn  blades  rubbed 
against  each  other  and  there  was  a  low  sweet  sound  as 
though  something  was  being  born,  old  dead  physical 
life  was  being  torn  away,  cast  aside.  Perhaps  new  life 
was  coming  into  the  land. 

Rosalind  began  to  run.  She  had  thrown  off  the 
town  and  her  father  and  mother  as  a  runner  might 
throw  off  a  heavy  and  unnecessary  garment.  She 
wished  also  to  throw  off  the  garments  that  stood  be 
tween  her  body  and  nudity.  She  wanted  to  be  naked, 
new  born.  Two  miles  out  of  town  a  bridge  crossed 
Willow  Creek.  It  was  now  empty  and  dry  but  in  the 
darkness  she  imagined  it  filled  with  water,  swift  run 
ning  water,  water  the  color  of  chrysoprase.  She  had 
been  running  swiftly  and  now  she  stopped  and  stood 
on  the  bridge  her  breath  coming  in  quick  little  gasps. 

After  a  time  she  went  on  again,  walking  until  she 
had  regained  her  breath  and  then  running  again.  Her 
body  tingled  with  life.  She  did  not  ask  herself  what 
she  was  going  to  do,  how  she  was  to  meet  the  problem 
she  had  come  to  Willow  Springs  half  hoping  to  have 
solved  by  a  word  from  her  mother.  She  ran.  Before 
her  eyes  the  dusty  road  kept  coming  up  to  her  out  of 


OUT     OF     NOWHERE     INTO     NOTHING      267 

darkness.  She  ran  forward,  always  forward  into  a 
faint  streak  of  light.  The  darkness  unfolded  before 
her.  There  was  joy  in  the  running  and  with  every  step 
she  took  she  achieved  a  new  sense  of  escape.  A  de 
licious  notion  came  into  her  mind.  As  she  ran  she 
thought  the  light  under  her  feet  became  more  distinct. 
It  was,  she  thought,  as  though  the  darkness  had  grown 
afraid  in  her  presence  and  sprang  aside,  out  of  her 
path.  There  was  a  sensation  of  boldness.  She  had 
herself  become  something  that  within  itself  contained 
light.  She  was  a  creator  of  light.  At  her  approach 
darkness  grew  afraid  and  fled  away  into  the  distance. 
When  that  thought  came  she  found  herself  able  to  run 
without  stopping  to  rest  and  half  wished  she  might  run 
on  forever,  through  the  land,  through  towns  and  cities, 
driving  darkness  away  with  her  presence. 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  TRUMPET 

T  STATED  it  as  definitely  as  I  could. 
I  was  in  a  room  with  them. 

They  had  tongues  like  me,  and  hair  and  eyes. 

I  got  up  out  of  my  chair  and  said  it  as  definitely  as 
I  could. 

Their  eyes  wavered.  Something  slipped  out  of  their 
grasp.  Had  I  been  white  and  strong  and  young  enough 
I  might  have  plunged  through  walls,  gone  outward 
into  nights  and  days,  gone  into  prairies,  into  distances 
— gone  outward  to  the  doorstep  of  the  house  of  God, 
gone  to  God's  throne  room  with  their  hands  in  mine. 

What  I  am  trying  to  say  is  this — 

By  God  I  made  their  minds  flee  out  of  them. 

Their  minds  came  out  of  them  as  clear  and  straight 
as  anything  could  be. 

I  said  they  might  build  temples  to  their  lives. 

I  threw  my  words  at  faces  floating  in  a  street. 

I  threw  my  words  like  stones,  like  building  stones. 

I  scattered  words  in  alleyways  like  seeds. 

I  crept  at  night  and  threw  my  words  in  empty  rooms 
of  houses  in  a  street. 

I  said  that  life  was  life,  that  men  in  streets  and 
cities  might  build  temples  to  their  souls. 

268 


THE      MAN      WITH      THE      TRUMPET      269 

I  whispered  words  at  night  into  a  telephone. 
I  told  my  people  life  was  sweet,  that  men  might  live. 
I  said  a  million  temples  might  be  built,  that  door 
steps  might  be  cleansed. 

At  their  fleeing  harried  minds  I  hurled  a  stone. 
I  said  they  might  build  temples  to  themselves. 


